


A Musketeers' Winter

by ComeHitherAshes



Series: A Musketeers' Seasonal Challenge [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas, Cotton Candy Fluff, DECFANFIC, F/F, F/M, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Some angst, Winter, au prompts, mostly pairings, occasional smut, some OT3, specified at the beginning of each chapter, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-27 18:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 32,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2702228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 1-1.5k word prompts for December, loosely based around winter and Christmas. Mostly pairings, some OT3, tags and triggers given at the beginning of each chapter.</p><p>SirLancelotTheBrave and I don't discuss posts beforehand, so any similarities are a happy coincidence!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get Your Skates On, Mate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SirLancelotTheBrave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLancelotTheBrave/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 1 - Ice skating._
> 
> Huzzah, December is here, and as promised, here is the new prompt challenge. I may have skimped on the fic title in favour of choosing the chapter's one (points available), but hey, winter, there's a theme appearing...
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, grumpy!Athos, fluff galore, if you ever get any of my references please tell me in the comments, it would make my day.

It was akin to stepping through a portal to another land, Athos left behind solid ground and the brisk wind, and stepped towards an eerie chill and the sound of screams.

" _Please,_ Athos, it'll be fun," Aramis begged, one hand entwined with his as he was essentially dragged into a world he no longer knew and never understood.

It was the screams that undid him, and he braced his feet on the door's threshold, shaking his head. Unfortunately, Porthos was directly behind him, and simply sent him toppling into Aramis' gleeful arms.

Athos twisted to glare over his shoulder, but Porthos just grinned at him, a wicked glint in his eye that was far too attractive for a kidnapper. "No use glarin' at me, Athos, Aramis wants to ice skate, then we ice skate, whether we can or not."

Athos cranked his glare up a few decibels, but then Aramis rubbed his nose against his cheek and Porthos captured his other hand, and he relented, as he always did, for he was helpless against their combined force.

 _Ice skating,_ positively ghastly.

"I can skate well enough," he said, warily eyeing the iced rink as if it were quicksand. "I just choose not to."

Porthos scowled dubiously at him. "Bullshit you can, why else would you not wanna skate?"

Aramis was jumping up and down with excitement and Athos allowed himself to be towed, but bit out scathingly, "Because it's foolish and dangerous. It's simply self-preservation. Do you know how many people lose extremities due to ice skating?"

"Er, none," Porthos countered, "prob'ly 'cause this ain't the Olympics and they ain't razor-blades?"

Athos muttered under his breath, but it was hard to rouse all of his detestation when Aramis ecstatically bought their three tickets.

Porthos clapped a hand over Athos' mouth when he would have denied a pair of skates, and Aramis simply chose some for him, the pair of them smiling at Athos' doom-mongering expression.

He didn't fight, he could have done, but it was cold and Porthos was warm.

Besides, he didn't have to actually put the damn things on.

"You said when Hell had frozen over, Athos, and look," Aramis gestured around with an evil grin, "here it is."

"Jus' 'cause you can't skate, Athos," Porthos taunted as they sat down on a bench, Aramis getting his laces done up in record time, and stooping to help Porthos.

"When have your tricks ever worked on me?" he asked idly, already scoping out a coffee shop.

"Worked alright last night when I bet you couldn't get Aramis off before I did." Porthos' grin was fantastically lewd as Aramis looked up, a scandalised – but wistful – blush on his cheeks.

"There are children around, Porthos," Aramis whispered, but he aimed a long, lingering look at Athos, and then at the skates in his hand.

"Fine, be a grumpy git, we'll skate without you," Porthos announced, and Athos spread his hands as if thanking the skies.

"That was all I wanted."

Aramis pouted before sliding gracefully onto the ice, getting his bearings almost immediately, his face an absolute picture of childish joy.

Athos could not stop his smile from forming, and it widened when Porthos finally realised what he had let himself in for.

Porthos would suit ice skating like he did flying – terribly. Porthos was a ground creature, best when the stable earth was beneath his feet, and if he needed to, he could run on it.

Porthos' first step onto the ice had his foot going out from under him, but his arms were braced on the doorway. Athos knew him too well to think he would accept defeat, and laughed quietly when a look of pure determination crossed Porthos' face, testing his weight once more.

Aramis crooned encouragement like a leopard to its cub, hovering a metre away with his hand outstretched.

It was adorable, and Athos let the burst of affection warm him as he remained by the rink's edge, unable to take his watchful eye off of them as they made their way onto the ice proper.

Aramis whooped with joy when Porthos just about managed it, skilfully skating backwards so that he could hold Porthos' hands and take him around the ice, Porthos valiantly doing his best to stay upright.

By the first wobble, Athos had tensed, by the second, he had reached for his skates, by the third, they were laced up, and when the fourth had Porthos crashing into Aramis and the two of them tumbling to the floor, Athos skidded into place next to them in a shower of frost.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly, drawing back when they both looked up with shocked smiles on their faces.

"You're on the ice!" Aramis cried delightedly.

"An' better'n me," Porthos growled good-naturedly.

Athos shrugged, only half enjoying the remembered ache in his legs. "Some of us are just naturally talented,  _mon ami_."

Porthos was up on his feet and lunging for him as quick as a flash, but Athos was quicker, and deftly slid out of the way, twisting just in time to catch Porthos before he slipped face-first onto the ice. "I told you I could skate."

"Why didn't you want to, then?" Aramis asked.

"Self-preservation," he repeated, lip quirking, "I knew you two would be terrible."

"Get 'im," Porthos snapped, using Aramis as a puck and launching him at Athos.

If it had been a chase, Athos would have escaped, but he couldn't  _not_ reach for Aramis as he flew towards him, his protective streak a-screeching. Athos caught him, but when Aramis would have borne him down the floor, Athos spun him.

Instinct must have taken over because Aramis tightened, one arm reaching up and curving above his head. Athos' own shot out to help him in case he fell, but he simply stared when Aramis finished his twist with a flourish.

"Fuck me," Porthos breathed, and Athos nodded, awestruck. "Where'd you learn that?"

Aramis gestured up and down his body. "Please, you can't see me in a sequined bodysuit?"

Athos tilted his head to the side, his own version of Porthos' dirty grin. "You skated professionally?"

Athos felt his heart-rate jump, wondering how much money it would cost to bribe everyone to leave, immediately. There was something ridiculously alluring about the thought of Aramis sweeping about the rink like the ice fairy that he was.

"When I was in school, I only did it because Mama told me it would do wonders for my calves." Aramis pointed a toe. "It did."

"So why'd you stop?" Porthos asked after he had stopped ogling Aramis' leg, and then chuckling at Athos when he continued for a few more seconds.

Aramis shrugged. "The guys weren't cute enough, and the girls prefer to be lifted." Aramis paused suddenly, interested gaze falling on the pair of them. Porthos wobbled on his feet as he gave him an apologetic smile – and pointed directly at Athos.

"No, I didn't do lifts, I can only skate," he denied, hands up in protest.

"Come on, Athos," Aramis purred, "Don't let those gorgeous muscles go to waste."

Athos' lip twitched, he felt it, like a quiver as he tried to restrain his smug smile, even knowing he was being stitched up like a kipper.

"Yeah, c'mon, Athos," Porthos' voice was hot in his ear as Athos tried to back away, "Give Aramis what 'e wants, I wanna see."

"I bet you do," he said dryly, and Porthos rested his fingers on the back of Athos' neck, just the barest of pressures, and then he squeezed.

"Go on, love, I'll make it worth your while."

Athos paused, turning his head slightly to see the dark, dangerous, delicious promise in Porthos' eyes.

"If you fall…" he said warningly, but Aramis' smile simply warmed.

"Then you'll catch me,  _mon cher_."

Athos sighed and held out a hand, Porthos' chuckle encouraging as they raced around the edge, both he and Aramis falling into patterns long disused.

Aramis turned into him, Athos' hands fell onto slim hips as they so normally did. The lift was fine, Athos had held Aramis higher for much longer – and for far better reasons – but the landing was what tripped them up.

Athos' foot was in the wrong place, Aramis couldn't get out of the way fast enough, and gravity swiftly overcame them. Athos twisted, keeping Aramis against his chest until it was Athos' back that hit the ice, and he braced for the impact of the wall.

It didn't come, instead, he heard a grunt, and smashed into the far nicer wall of Porthos' arms, keeping him shielded from damage just as he had kept Aramis safe.

They were sprawled, legs akimbo, on the ice, Aramis crawling up his dazed form to kiss him on the lips, leaning up to do the same to Porthos, and then chanting happily, "Again!"

Athos let his head thunk against Porthos' leg, who growled, "You were only s'posed to do one bloody lift!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could have had some suspense of belief and _ta-da!_ Athos can lift like a boss (to the tunes of Elton John and Queen), but hey, where does that have any place in reality?
> 
> Also, I have just raced back here, laughing hysterically, because Lancelot has called me to say, " _Stitched like a kipper?_ I can practically feel the Britishness rolling off that." It means set up or framed. 
> 
> It has begun, please don't forget to comment if you liked it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	2. Deck the Halls (with Shedloads of Greenery)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 2 - Mistletoe._
> 
> Mistletoe, or, in Aramis' case, anything with berries, sometimes just greenery, oftentimes just doorways. (Ninja Britishism edit: stationary cupboard = supply closet.)
> 
>  **TAGS:** Constagnan, background OT3, cheeky!Puppy, sneaky!Constance, ship ALL the pairings!

D'Artagnan checked his watch in the gloom, the clock face glowing encouragingly back at him. Excellent, he had a good few minutes before his next patrol.

He peered out into the hallway, ducking back into the stationary cupboard when Athos strode past, muttering about Aramis dotting his "i"s with hearts. D'Artagnan hovered amidst the bric-a-brac of office supplies, pocketing a packet of powder-blue Post-It notes as he waited for the coast to clear.

Stepping lightly, as if his livelihood depended on it – which it kinda did – he drew a sprig of greenery, fixed a bit of tape to the stem, and slapped it above the doorway.

Then he scampered back to the cupboard.

Snickering to himself, he raked his fingers through his hair, sorted out his fringe, and popped a mint into his mouth. Right on cue, he stepped out with a distracted look, and bumped into Constance.

Her red rose-petal mouth curved slightly. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in feigned confusion, pretending to be surprised by the mistletoe that kept appearing everywhere. "It  _is_ a tradition," he said with a sigh, looking down and up again, his smile crooked.

She hummed in agreement, and then pressed a very chaste kiss to his lips.

D'Artagnan's world erupted into fireworks, everything focused on the mahogany curls brushing his cheeks, the hint of her smile, her rhubarb-and-custard scent, but he managed to pull back without humiliating himself and swept a bow when she giggled at him.

When she was gone, he congratulated himself, pressing a finger to his mouth when it still tingled.

Six months he had been apprenticing under Athos, slowly falling in love with Constance from afar. He thought he had been sneaky about it, but one lunch break, Porthos had nudged Aramis in the ribs and said, "Can you  _please_ just give 'im some tips, 'is puppy eyes are killin' me."

"Faint heart never won fair maiden, d'Artagnan," Aramis had said slyly, "How do you think we're winning Athos over?"

D'Artagnan had looked between them in shock, the strange tension in boardroom meetings suddenly making sense, Aramis and Porthos' scribbled notes on Athos' desk, Athos tiny smiles when he thought no one was looking.

"Teach me," he had cried, because if they could crack Athos' shell, then clearly they were wizards.

That had been two weeks ago, and since then he had engineered no fewer than three lunch breaks together, a place on the Party Planning Committee, and even managed to bribe Athos into giving him Constance for the office's Secret Santa.

Athos' terms had him forgetting the pink,  _scented_ note he had found taped to Athos' computer – and, honestly, if he could bleach his mind, he would have done. There were some things no one was ever meant to know about their cool and commanding boss.

He had  _sat_ at that desk, for fuck's sake!

The mistletoe had been Porthos' idea – and he was taking great advantage of d'Artagnan's work if Athos' permanent blush was any indication. Flea had been happy to hook him up with Constance's timetable in exchange for Ninon's, and Ninon had conveniently lost the key to the boardroom last week when he and Constance had been planning the Christmas party.

Ninon had wanted his break slot with Flea, and it had taken five minutes of  _that_  before the two of them were sneaking off into Flea's office.

Seriously, it was like everyone was in heat at the moment.

D'Artagnan checked his watch, time for the fourth go of his mistletoe run.

He raced down the hallway, stopping short when Porthos poked his head out of the door and growled through a smile, "Scat."

Very faintly, he could hear Athos' smooth voice raised an octave above normal, and Aramis' purred response.

"But my mistletoe's in there!"

Porthos' smile grew wicked. "I know, scat."

D'Artagnan grumbled but did as he was told, quickly formulating a new plan. Except that everywhere he went, people were hovering with stupid smiles on their faces, or simply  _chatting._  He had no time for chatting!

Skidding on the panelled carpet, he paused when he caught sight of Constance ahead of him, her eyes widening for a second when she saw him. "What did I tell you about meeting like this?"

He frowned in genuine confusion this time, but before he could say anything, his mind blanked as Constance gently kissed him.

Caught off guard, he barely registered her soft smile as she brushed past him, and spent the next five minutes in a blissful daze.

After photocopying the wrong side of the sheet three times, he bumped into her again, under a different door, in a different hallway, but the fireworks felt just the same.

After the fourth time in ten minutes, he started to panic. What if she thought  _he_ was the one that kept putting them up? He didn't want to look like some sort of stalker!

And he refused to entertain the notion that he sort of was.

It was all Porthos' idea anyway, and that hallway was still suspiciously out of bounds.

D'Artagnan started snatching the damn sprigs down, leaping through doorways when they were too high up, frantically stuffing them behind printers but there were  _so many._

He was flailing for the last one when Constance just had to appear out of nowhere. She raised her eyebrows at him and he blurted out, "It's not me, I swear, I didn't put them up!"

Constance hesitated, her teeth carefully nibbling her bottom lip until he could almost hear the fizzling of the fireworks.

"I know," she finally said, joining him on the threshold, her delicate fingers resting over his racing heartbeat. "I did."

"Oh," he said dumbly, blinking at her shy smile, his own forming from the very depths of his adoration for her.

"It  _is_ tradition," she said seriously, raising onto her tip-toes when he nodded swiftly, and her kiss once again sent him into a stupor.

Fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still firmly of the headcanon that Aramis keeps mistletoe in his pockets like a magician, so when Athos exasperatedly snatches it from him, a thousand sprigs follow.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	3. Prepare for Trouble! (Make it Treble!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 3 - Trying to be real grown-ups who are responsible but they still eat kids cereal and get up early to watch cartoons (watching holiday specials)._
> 
> This turned out to be just winter-and-cartoons rather than holidays-and-specials, but I got a little obsessed with this idea. (I will jump at any chance where I can write about the boys lounging at home.)
> 
> **TAGS:** OT3, cuddles, lazy mornings, Pokemon, particularly pleased with the potential AU of this, the boys are the Elite 4, Constance is the fourth, d'Artagnan is Ash/Red, is Bonacieux Gary? TREVILLE IS OAK, Richelieu and Milady are Team Rocket, oh my goodness, somebody help me.

Porthos was roused by the duvet shifting against his skin, the sudden absence of warmth along one side, and blinked at the low dawn light trying to sneak under his eyelids.

Curls tickled his chest, one arm curving over his stomach and a leg twined with his, but it wasn't a lot to go on – sometimes he woke up and they had swapped sides. The fidgeting gave it away.

Porthos tugged Aramis closer, getting a sleepy kiss against his neck for his efforts, and opened his eyes just in time to see Athos slipping out of the bedroom door.

Absent-mindedly, he followed Athos' sounds through the house, the barely-there tread on the stairs, the whispering sigh at the post, the faint click of the coffee machine, and finally, the soft snap of a newspaper.

They were comforting sounds, morning sounds,  _Athos_ ' sounds, and they were Porthos' favourite things to wake up to.

Well, aside from Athos and Aramis leaning over him as they kissed, their curls mussed and their smiles sleepy, and when they realised he was awake and they both had that mischievous twinkle in their eyes.

Yeah, that was pretty damn fantastic, too.

Aramis cuddled in tighter, groaning pitifully when he heard Athos' spoon clink once against his cup. Porthos grinned, enjoying the slow crawl of a winter's morning, making the most of the warmth under the covers because he would be dragged out of it soon.

It had started about a year ago, just after they had moved in together. Athos was never quite one for 'sleeping in', but the weekends were his one chance to ignore the clock, and he hadn't taken kindly to Porthos (their portable heater, as Aramis put it) leaving the bed before him on a Saturday.

Porthos had important business to take care of on a Saturday morning, the same thing he had done every Saturday morning since he was five years old, and he had no intention of stopping.

Four Saturdays of coming back upstairs to find Athos and Aramis clinging to each other like kittens in the warm spot he had left, Athos had demanded to know what sort of sick game he was playing.

Porthos had simply chuckled and, on the next Saturday, bundled Aramis up in the duvet – Athos had glared at him as he proudly stalked ahead – and took them with him downstairs, squeezed between them on the sofa, and flicked on the television.

"This," Athos had asked in scandalised horror as the bright, neon colours splashed across the screen, "is what you've been doing?"

Aramis' scowl at being drawn from cuddles had disappeared, and morphed into an excited squeak. Porthos had grinned in shared delight, untangling the duvet from Aramis' wriggling form so that he could rest his hand on Aramis' warm thigh.

"Yeah, s'that a problem?"

Athos had blinked, looking at Aramis bouncing along to the theme tune and back to the television again. " _Cartoons?_  At your age?"

"Hey," he had growled, tugging on the back of Athos' neck to make him arch, "Nothin' wrong with cartoons, 'specially not on a Saturday mornin'!"

Athos had remained unconvinced, and it caused Aramis to frown at him, fond concern in his eyes. "You never woke up early to watch cartoons as a child,  _mon cher_?"

"No?" Athos had said as if it was obvious, eyeing the simple animations dubiously. "I always had things to do on the weekends, training, work, chores. I certainly didn't watch," his voice lowered to one of distaste, "cartoons."

Athos had grumbled every Saturday for a month, but he still followed them downstairs, scowling raptly at the screen.

Over time, the scowl lessened, he started smirking at Aramis loudly singing the theme tunes, he would curl up with them as if they were in bed – when normally, on the sofa, Athos only maintained a small amount of contact, hands tangled or heads resting on shoulders.

Now? Well…

Porthos opened one eye when he heard the light tread on the stairs again, and chuckled when Aramis whimpered as if his world was ending.

Athos stepped into the room, bringing the scent of fresh coffee with him, and a tiny smile at the sight of them. Aramis stuck a hand out of the covers, a desperate plea for Athos to come back to bed.

"You know once e's up, 'e's up, love," Porthos murmured. "'Sides, we got stuff to do."

Athos checked his watch a little irritably. "Hurry up, we're going to be late."

Aramis wriggled deeper, hiding under the blankets, and Porthos rolled to his knees with a chuckle, stealing a kiss from Athos before saying to the pile on the bed, "Shall I carry you, darlin'?"

"Yes," came the muffled reply, and Athos snorted delicately before opening the door for them both.

Carefully, Athos calling out warnings as they walked, Porthos deposited a bundled Aramis on the sofa, raising an eyebrow at a dressed Athos. "Clothes off."

Athos rolled his eyes – barely hiding his smile – but did as he was told until he matched their state of undress. Porthos watched appreciatively, winking when Athos raised an eyebrow, and contented himself with tickling a screaming Aramis whilst Athos headed for the kitchen.

Aramis stuck his head out of the blankets to sing when Porthos finally found the remote. "I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was!"

"To catch them is my real test," he continued, and turned his head to catch Athos' lip inching upwards.

"To train them is my cause," Athos murmured as he sat next to him, refusing to meet their joyful laughs with anything other than turning the volume up higher.

Aramis clambered over Porthos to take his cereal from Athos, peppering them both with kisses as he did so, and sighing happily into his bowl – one filled with the overly sugared cereal that they loved and Athos turned his nose up at.

"I think I'd like a Rapidash," Aramis said wistfully, after calling it out for the  _Guess That Pokémon!_ game. "Sleek, fiery, fast; think it suits me."

"Yeah?" Porthos leaned back, laying an arm behind each of their heads so that he could twist his fingers in their curls. "Always wanted a Geodude, 'cause Golem's like a rock turtle."

Aramis nodded wisely. "Hard-headed, tough,  _grounded_." Aramis snickered at his joke. "Athos?"

Athos was quiet for a few moments, attention fixed on Ash and Pikachu's adventure, until Porthos and Aramis were practically falling on him in anticipation of his answer.

"Pidgeot, the final evolution," Athos said, his voice thoughtful, "it looks very poised."

Aramis wrinkled his nose in denial. "No, you need to be a legendary Pokémon, Athos."

"Yeah, flyin's great, very you, but Pidgey? Nah, you gotta be Articuno."

Athos' laugh was surprised out of him, his smile crinkling his eyes as he tipped his head onto Porthos' arm. "Is that so?"

"That's perfect," Aramis cried, "Ice and flying!"

Athos made a very pleased humming noise, reaching out to take Aramis' empty bowl before linking their hands together. "What about d'Artagnan?"

Porthos snorted affectionately, "A Growlithe pup, all paws an' singed tails."

"I think he'd be a good Buizel, actually," Aramis mused, but was immediately shot down by Athos' groan.

"Please, I can barely cope with the original 151, the newer generations can wait."

It was hilarious to hear Pokémon snobbery said in Athos' cultured voice, the pair of them arguing over which was the best series, Porthos chiming in to complain about the new animation style and the new Pokémon type ("C'mon, fairy?" "But they're so  _cute,"_ Aramis cried in its defence).

Their laughter was quiet but warm, and Porthos felt a little sad when the episode ended. He liked this mainstay of their weekend, having them both in his arms, watching Athos enjoy something silly.

Both he and Aramis watched Athos hopefully as the end theme played, and Athos' lip twitched when he saw them. "Another?"

Aramis whooped and threw himself across Porthos' chest to reach Athos for a kiss, and Porthos dragged them both onto his lap.

Athos submitted for a moment, if only because he was busy having his lip nipped by Aramis, and then slid to the side, smirking at Porthos' frown. "Ground is weak to ice and flying, Porthos, everyone knows that."

Aramis blew Athos a kiss from his perch on Porthos' knees, and then reached for the remote, putting the next episode on. As Aramis bounced to the tune, Porthos reached for Athos with the arm not resting on Aramis' waist.

Athos came willingly, his kiss scorching, still wet from Aramis' attentions and just enough taunt in it to make him growl, but it was the fingernails against Porthos' scalp that had him shuddering in pleasure.

"Claws, Articuno?" he muttered against Athos' mouth, feeling Athos' sly smile form until Porthos wanted to haul them both back upstairs and forget the damn cartoons. Athos' ice-blue eyes smirked at him, such delicious promises taking flight in their depths.

"It's super effective."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their types are circular, fire is effective against ice, ice is effective against ground, ground is effective against fire. OT3 PERFECTION. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	4. A Serious Case of the Snow Balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 4 - Snowball fight._
> 
> I had such a ridiculous amount of fun with this idea, mostly because I never realised what a shrewd, ruthless, immature businessman that Porthos was, and I love it.
> 
>  **TAGS:** Athos/Porthos, business rivalries, d'Artagnan is clucking over Athos, Athos is laden down in scarves, Porthos is taking "business fashion" to new and delicious heights, 0 to 60 in four seconds.

Athos swore as he slapped the sheaf of papers onto his desk, angrily eyeing the signature scrawled along the bottom. It should have been  _his_ name on this contract,  _his_ smooth black fountain-pen ink rather than scrappy blue biro,  _his_  business getting the okay from the new suppliers.

Instead, it was…

Athos sneered, mouth refusing to form the name of his rival, of the man who seemed to make it his daily goal to piss him off with his ridiculously bright grins.

The bastard.

With a final scathing glance at the photocopy, Athos shoved his chair aside and strode out, almost to freedom before d'Artagnan slipped into the lift, chiding frown in place.

"It's snowing," d'Artagnan warned, and Athos wondered when the boy had gone from the position of 'Junior' to 'Mother Hen'.

He had enough of those already.

"I'm wearing a jacket," he muttered defensively, and pulled it tighter around his face in protest.

D'Artagnan's frown deepened, and from behind his he back drew a scarf.

It was Athos', one of his plain black ones that he had a million of and was convinced had been disappearing.

"Where did you get that?"

D'Artagnan's superior air faltered a little when he blushed. "Constance said you need to be watched, so," the boy's chin lifted, his expression firming, "wear it."

That explained where his personal possessions kept disappearing to, at least. The lift arrived at the ground floor and Athos had three seconds to decide whether he could make a dash for the exit, or just accept their persistent efforts to care for him.

The edges of d'Artagnan's eyebrows tilted upwards, his bottom lip starting to stick out obstinately.

Athos sighed and twirled the scarf around his neck. " _Oui, ma mere,_ " he called over his shoulder, and saw the boy's grin in the door's reflection.

As d'Artagnan had so accurately remarked, it was, indeed, snowing outside, soft drifts already gathering around the cars. Athos liked it, it was peaceful; the crunching, the blanketed silence, the distant roar of the motorway, the sudden sound of approaching footfalls.

_Splat._

Athos' eyelid twitched as a snowball collided with his cheekbone. It dripped in a freezing path down his throat and pooled about the coiled fabric –  _thank you, d'Artagnan_.

A low, lingering chuckle echoed around the car park, and Athos whipped his head around to snarl at the source, the name scrawled on the photocopy finally leaving his mouth, "Du Vallon!"

His aggressor popped up, thumbs hooked in his trousers' braces as he strolled over. His footprints trailed from the building opposite, the one that housed the rival company. "Lookin' a bit wet, there, la Fère. Everythin' alright?"

Athos wiped the sludge from his skin and flicked it at the floor, trying to glare holes through the bright grin  _at his expense._ Porthos du Vallon, the golden boy, made it to CEO in half the time it had taken Athos – and all because Athos had refused any hands up from his  _connections._

Porthos du Vallon, resident asshole. "This is assault."

Porthos snorted, circling him until Athos was tempted to snap his teeth like a crowded wolf. "That ain't assault,  _this_ is assault."

Fingertips connected with Athos' sternum, and then he fell backwards into a snow drift, rage barely covering the sounds of Porthos' snickering as he bolted, acting half his age, as usual.

Two years they had been fighting for contracts, two years since du Vallon's name had appeared on the parking space next to his, two years since his branch had opened up  _directly opposite_ Athos'.

Two years since Porthos had sauntered over that first evening, as Athos was scoping the joint out and caught short by the dangerously gorgeous man. Two years since Athos had first seen that infuriating grin and heard that infuriating chuckle in that year's first snowfall.

"Guess we'll be seein' a lot of each other," the grin, the chuckle, "Athos de la Fère."

Too bloody much, in Athos' opinion.

Too much, and yet not quite enough.

Porthos caught him again two days later, after Athos had been chased out of his office with both Constance and d'Artagnan hot on his tail until he finally agreed to their demands.

As Athos vibrated with tamped down fury, Porthos snickered, "Nice scarves."

Athos glared at the two offending objects, noticing with complete disinterest that Porthos was only in a blazer, the top two buttons of his shirt undone to show dark chest underneath.

"Shut up," he grumbled, his comebacks sorely diminished at the sight of a thin silver chain trailing under Porthos' shirt. "I won't hesitate to call your superior, you know."

Porthos affected a wounded expression, palm placed over his heart. "We're grown men, la Fère, we can settle this like men."

Athos was left on his back, cursing at an all-too-familiar white sky, seconds later.

Obviously, this meant war.

Athos planned his revenge like a military captain; he plotted from the high ground, marking tactics on his office window in dry-wipe markers, positioning his car (and those of his colleagues) exactly how he wanted them.

It took two days, and as Friday drew to a close, Athos cancelled all of his meetings past 4pm so that he could play this out to perfection.

Yes, he was waiting on another contract today, one hotly contested by Porthos' people, but Athos had faith – faith, and a whole heap of righteous retribution just ready to be relayed with his deadly accuracy and rigorous planning.

At one minute past the hour, Athos was in his snow bunker, mentally checking and re-checking his ammunition, three scarves wound around his neck his punishment for pretending to be ill.

Didn't d'Artagnan realise that there were more important schemes at play?

At bang on half past, the door to the opposite building swung open, and Porthos du Vallon whistled naively as he headed for his car.

Athos struck like a machine gun from the mists, attacking from everywhere and nowhere, until he had exhausted his supply and Porthos was left spinning wildly, looking for him. The look of shock on his face sparked Athos' first genuine smile of the day.

"What," Porthos called to the cars, dripping in slush that turned his white shirt completely see-through, "You grumpy 'cause you lost out on the Finnemore numbers?"

Athos snorted, refusing to be goaded, but did admire the sight of his creation, skin heating when Porthos shrugged and it drew the material tighter to his chest.

"Yeah," Porthos continued tauntingly, "just came in, got a call from Charles, said your pitch was shit. We're goin' out for lunch tomorrow."

Athos burst from his hiding place, scoffing affrontedly, "You are not,  _I'm_ meeting him for lunch tomorrow."

Porthos locked onto him, smile ten-thousand degrees of predatory. "Gotcha."

Porthos took a step towards him, and Athos wasn't sure how it happened, but he backed off. "Come now, du Vallon, let's not turn this into a turf war."

Porthos valiantly tried not to laugh, "S'that a race joke?"

"What? No!" Athos' mouth clicked shut when Porthos snickered. "You're a conniving bastard."

Porthos' eyes lidded as he bit his lip. "Ooh, I could 'ave you up for that."

Athos felt his mouth curve. "I'm sure you could."

Porthos' scarred eyebrow raised just as the corner of his mouth did. "You comin' onto me, la Fère?"

"I would never come onto a rival-"  _Fuck_.

Porthos' mouth opened wide as he laughed in genuine shock, "Oh, my God, can't believe you gave me that openin'- no, wait!"

Athos raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I can hardly believe it, either." When Porthos grinned, Athos spread his hands, taking a stand, not backing away when Porthos took another step. "I'm afraid I don't fraternise with the enemy."

Porthos stepped again, anyway. "That's a shame, y'sure?"

Athos inhaled sharply, his brow puckering, but mostly from the way he shivered at Porthos' proximity. "Yes?"

The infuriatingly bright grin that had tormented him for two years suddenly grew sly. "D'you get coffee with rivals?"

Athos almost reeled backwards, trying to ignore the sharp stab of lust in his stomach. "What's your angle? I won't tell you our business plans."

They were close enough that Athos could feel Porthos' breath on his lips now, the curl of mist through the cold air, and Athos could see the silver chain outlined under Porthos' damp shirt.

"I don't want business plans," Porthos said gruffly, gaze dark and intense, "I want you, Athos de la Fère."

Athos paused, then he circled, and then he lunged, forcing Porthos backwards into a snow drift and falling with him, until Porthos' hands slipped to his waist and Porthos' kiss scorched his mouth.

"You are such a bastard, du Vallon," he growled between burning breaths, sliding his iced fingers along Porthos' stomach.

Porthos' caught breath was a delicious thing, but what was better was the chuckle, "Yeah, but I can be yours."

Now that was a business deal that Athos could agree to; vocally, and many,  _many,_ times over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it was 0 to 60 in four seconds, but can you blame them? That's two years of snow balls, two years of them seeing the other's signature, two years of Porthos chasing the rare sound of Athos' laugh, two years- oh, the fic's over.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	5. The Picture of English Elegance and Authority, Sir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 5 - Overly bundled up for the weather._
> 
> I wanted this to be longer but time was a constraint, I'm afraid. Points available for the one reference mentioned a few times (title included)!
> 
>  **TAGS:** Portamis, 0-60 because I ran out of time, adorableness, fluff, Spirit Hood hats.

With a t-shirt, shirt, cardigan, scarf, his favourite jeans, a pair of socks, and the best hat ever to grace the history of hats, Aramis was definitely  _bundled up._

Somehow, he still managed to have snow slicking his curls, but he refused to take anything off when he entered the lecture hall and found it even colder. He shook his head in a way that would have splattered the first three rows of students if anyone had been there.

He was early, for once, but if the blizzard outside was any indication, his class had probably been cancelled.

Trudging to his favourite seat anyway, he pulled his sleeves over his wrists, snuggled into his hat, and settled in to wait.

Aramis perked up when Porthos opened the door, glancing at him for a fraction of a heated second before busying himself with his bag and walking over to the seat in front of Aramis', the one he usually took.

Safe in his bundle, Aramis watched him approach, noticing once again that Porthos had shown up to class wearing next-to-nothing (unfortunately, not literally). Aramis was wearing about eighteen layers and still freezing.

"How can you be warm?" he asked grumpily, peeking out from under his hat and over his scarf.

Porthos turned slowly, looking about the room before saying in surprise, "Could've sworn I 'eard somethin', but there's only a pile 'f jumpers in 'ere."

Porthos finally looked at him, the amusement in his eyes the warmest thing Aramis had felt all day, and he savoured it, savoured Porthos' smile and the way it made his skin heat.

Aramis growled to hide his smile, "Do you even  _own_ a jumper?"

Porthos rummaged in his bag, pulling out a natty grey bundle. "Yeah, doesn't mean I need it."

Aramis bit his lip, eyeing the ridiculously comfy looking thing. Porthos caught the look before he could wipe it away, and his smile was the one that had Aramis sighing every time he saw it. "You look like you might, though."

"No, it's fine," he stammered, but Porthos just raised an eyebrow and held it out to him, wiggling the jumper when Aramis hesitated.

He didn't need any more encouragement, not after he had idly longed after something of Porthos' since the beginning of the year. Aramis staring absent-mindedly at the back of his head until he realised that Porthos had turned and raised an eyebrow at him, a grin flirting with his lips, "You daydreamin' 'bout me?"

It wasn't often that Aramis simply blushed for a response, but the surprised – and definitely interested – noise that Porthos had made was enough to have his cheeks feel a-flame.

Aramis took it, and it was all he could do not to bury his face and inhale Porthos' woodsy scent. Porthos seemed to still once he had shrugged it on, the sleeves falling far beyond his hands so that they peeked out.

Aramis pressed one cuff against his cheek as he asked nervously, "Did you want it back, or are you daydreaming about me?"

Porthos shook his head suddenly, as if flinging water. "Nah, well, yeah, but keep it, suits you."

Aramis ducked his head to blush, and when he looked up again, Porthos' grin was back in full force.

"Suit you, sir," Aramis quoted quietly, and snickered at Porthos' bark of laughter.

"Suit  _you,_ sir," Porthos replied exaggeratedly, bending his knees slightly to make Aramis laugh harder. "Never took you for a  _The Fast Show_ watcher, Aramis."

Silently, Aramis crowed victoriously at hearing his name in Porthos' rumbling voice, but managed to coax his own into normality. "Please, if Johnny Depp's in it, I'm there."

Porthos snorted, his hand coming up to stroke his jaw. "Is it the beard?"

"Yes," Aramis teased, "and the scar."

Porthos' scarred eyebrow raised, a pleased smile curving his mouth until teeth glinted. "Oh yeah?"

Aramis, fortified by Porthos' jumper between his fingers, looked up from under his lashes and murmured, "I like a bit of danger."

"Nah, I don't believe it," Porthos said, straddling his chair backwards so that he faced Aramis – and Aramis tried very hard not to let his gaze drift down. "You, with the sweet smile an' the ridiculous hats?"

"What's wrong with my hats?" he cried defensively.

Porthos tried to stifle his smile and failed. "S'got ears, babe. What are you, a fox?"

"A snow leopard," he muttered rebelliously, his lower lip sticking out as he rubbed the grey faux-fur.

"Ah, that makes sense," Porthos said sombrely, eyes glittering with mirth even as they tracked fire over Aramis' skin. "Endangered an' beautiful."

Aramis flushed but matched Porthos' grin, watching intently when Porthos shifted his chair forwards until it bumped against Aramis' desk. "We snow leopards need protecting."

"Bollocks," Porthos muttered softly, "you could do more damage than me, I reckon."

Aramis bared his teeth in a little smile, unable to stop himself from taking a reverent breath when Porthos reached out to ever-so-gently take a snowflake from his hair.

"Gorgeous," Porthos whispered, but his dark, soulful eyes were locked onto Aramis', and when Aramis let his fingers sneak from his over-long cuffs to rest on Porthos' hand, Aramis ducked his head. "Love it when you do that."

"Do what?" he mumbled, lowering his chin until he was half buried in his scarf.

"Blush," Porthos chuckled quietly, "S'adorable."

Aramis' smile tugged irresistibly upwards, and when Porthos' did the same, he wanted to kiss it.

"C'mere," Porthos murmured, and waited for Aramis to edge forwards before he slowly tugged Aramis' fluffy hat over his eyes. Blind to everything but Porthos' scent in his nose, his senses exploded when lips brushed against his, and Aramis' hand tightened on Porthos', not letting him pull away.

Porthos' laugh ghosted across his skin, and Porthos let go of his hood only to slip a burning hand around the back of his neck. Aramis blinked onto warm brown eyes. "I'm keeping your jumper," he whispered against Porthos' lips, tasting his sweet smile.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The class was cancelled, Porthos' warm fingers on Aramis' cold skin, soon clothes are no longer necessary, more cute hat banter, happy ending ( _ooh_ , the fine, young, strong American buck).
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	6. Blessed be Thy Bacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 6 - Planning a family party._
> 
> Of all the coincidences, I was AT a family party today, but it went considerably better than this. I'm not sure where the minor angst came from - it was going to be a lot more intense - but here's a little insight into one of Athos' more unfavourable personality traits (because it's not as if I write those all of the time in TDFS).
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3. Athos being a proud little shit, the boys being sweet, family angst, don't think there are any references this time.

"I hardly think I am to blame when you are the one with the inaccuracy," Athos said into the phone clasped to his cheek, pinned against his shoulder as his hands wrestled with a label. "No, I am not raising my voice, I'm simply telling you that it will all be done by tomorrow."

The room was quiet for a moment, and only Athos' growing scowl indicated that anything was being said on the phone.

"I gave you three weeks of notice, and yet you seem insistent on this being  _my_ fault?"

Another silence, this one punctuated by the plastic in Athos' hands submitting to his fury with a screech.

"I have no need to speak with him, content yourself with the knowledge that I am never going to ask for your assistance again, and please consider this our final correspondence."

Athos threw his phone across the room in a rare display of violence, and stared at it from his chair until Porthos poked his head into the doorway.

"Your mum's alright then?"

"I deserve a martyrdom for even speaking to the woman," Athos growled, spine rigid until he heard Porthos' chuckle, and only fully relaxing when Porthos' thumbs nestled against his aching back muscles.

Porthos carefully tugged on his shoulders, bringing him back so that Athos could rest against him. "'Course you do, love, she sounds a right 'andful."

"Two handfuls," he muttered, turning his head until he could rub his cheek against Porthos' stomach. "A bucket, a wheelbarrow, an entire freight carrier."

Porthos' laugh was warm, "Not gonna lie, times like this I'm glad I only 'ave you two to deal with."

"Charming," Athos said dryly, and was rewarded with a reprimanding squeeze of his neck. "Where is Aramis?"

"Think 'e went shoppin'," Porthos paused for a tactful few seconds, to which Athos stiffened, "Think you're stressin' 'im out a bit."

Athos groaned again, fully burying his face in Porthos' shirt, taking a selfish delight in sliding his fingers under the buttons to the warm skin beneath. A faint shiver vibrated against Athos' cheek, but Porthos had stilled to almost uncomfortable levels.

Athos lifted his head in question to see Porthos' eyes closed and his jaw clenched. "I'm tryin' very hard to not drag you off to bed 'cause I know you got stuff to do."

Athos felt his mouth curve and, regretfully, let Porthos go, laughing at Porthos' tormented sigh. "I will make it up to you both later, I promise."

"I know," Porthos assured him, strained smile turning soft, "Aramis does, too, 'e just doesn't like seein' you like this. An' I know you 'aven't slept, I got up in the night an' you were still writin'."

Athos sighed, warmed by their never-ending tolerance, and frustrated by his family's never-ending traditions. "I'm meant to do be arranging everything myself, it's always been the way."

Porthos snorted, thumbs resuming their gentle circling. "When've we ever done stuff by the book?"

Athos raised his brow in amused agreement. "When, indeed?" It was not as if he was putting much effort into this, he had left it to the last minute, and now he was rushing, distressed and distressing.

Still, his pride was far too large for him to do anything but knuckle down and get it all done, refusing to admit defeat or a lack of aptitude. "Why did I agree to do this,  _coeur de mon coeur_?"

Porthos' gentle rubs hesitated for a moment, but they continued after he had dropped a kiss to Athos' head. "If I remember right, you said somethin' about it bein' your duty as a la Fère and somethin' that sounded very pretty."

Athos snorted tiredly, "Sounded pretty?"

"Yeah," Porthos chuckled softly, "very valiant, all heroic an' shit."

"Heroism and martyrdom, there's a theme appearing."

Porthos leaned down to give him a kiss, and Athos had to fight not to hold him close and keep him there. They broke apart on an aggravated breath, Porthos resting their foreheads together as he asked once more, "You sure you don't want a hand?"

"It's my mistake, I need to fix it," he sighed, offering the one half of his heart a small smile. "Besides, you know I'm a perfectionist."

"That's jus' Athos-speak for bein' a fussy prick," Porthos taunted, and danced out of the way before Athos snatch him close again. "Call me if you need me, sweet."

Athos gave a non-committal noise. It just wasn't in him to ask for help, no matter that he had left himself no time to do anything, and his parents' thirtieth wedding anniversary party was resting entirely on his shoulders.

Athos dragged a hand over his face and picked up the first of the three-hundred invites he had to hand-write in his calligraphy pen.

As Porthos would say,  _traditions, what a load of old shit._

Aramis returned an hour later, and Athos forced himself away from cramping fingers and blotting paper so that he could tug Aramis into his arms and simply hold him, murmuring apologies until Aramis melted against his chest and nipped his neck.

"Are you sure you don't want any help,  _mon cher_?" Aramis asked, kissing a line along his jaw.

Athos hummed an agreement, relishing the feather-light touches on his skin. "Unless you wake up and I've died, I can – and will – do it all."

Aramis gave him an unimpressed look for that morbid statement, and both he and Porthos frowned at him when he disappeared back to the study. They were concerned instead of angry, and Athos knew that they probably should have been very angry – he was being, as Porthos had so delightfully put it, a fussy prick.

 _I am very lucky_ , he told himself as he stared at the copious piles of paper and envelopes and stamps and addresses and  _so, so much_ expensive ink _._

His over-tired mind could only take so much, and when his eyelids fluttered shut, it was to feel his desk's wood-grain against his skin, his invites still not done, his to-do list not even half crossed off.

Lucky? He was fucked.

He scrambled awake in bed some indeterminable time later, Porthos and Aramis sleeping protectively either side of him, both looking exhausted.

They must have carried him here.

 _I am very lucky,_  he thought again, easing out from between them, pulling at his hair as he thought about all he had to do today. Perhaps he should just admit defeat, he was a fool to turn them down, and he was no more a normal la Fère than he was a "normal" person.

The thought stuttered when he saw that his desk was empty of chaos;  _merde_ , had there been a robbery, of  _just_ his things?

Numbly, he fell through the door, and in the dim light of the early evening, he noticed the neat stack of envelopes, left unsealed so he could look at them. With trembling fingers, he saw that every single one was written in Aramis' neat calligraphy.

His to-do list, half ticked off, and the other half messily scribbled out, was covered in comments in Porthos' scrawl ( _what the hell do 300 flutes have to do with parties,_ and underneath,  _why don't they just call them glasses ffs_ ).

Everything was done, they'd done everything, painstakingly to his exacting standards.

Overwhelmed with adoration, Athos ducked into the kitchen, the fridge overflowing with his favourite foods, and cooked a barrage of bacon and eggs, carrying it all to the bedroom on a tray. Athos' smile was stupidly fond when Porthos roused first, nose twitching.

"I'm not sure words can adequately my gratitude, so," he gestured to the plates, "food."

Porthos groaned happily, "Best thanks, ever."

Aramis scooted over with a sleepy smile, head tilted to ask for a kiss. "We didn't want you to worry,  _mon cher,_ "

Porthos did the same, fingers briefly finding the back of Athos' neck. "Yeah, you were proper stressin', love."

"We do things together," Aramis said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Make our own traditions," Porthos added as he fed Athos a slice of bacon. Athos took it, licking Porthos' fingers as he did so, and received a delighted-sounding growl from Porthos and a wink from Aramis.

The month's stress lifted from his shoulders, and Athos sighed contentedly as he watched them munching on his lovingly prepared fare.

"I'm not going to the party," he announced, and they stared at him in surprise over their empty plates. "It's all planned, I've done what was required of me, why would I want to be anywhere other than with you two?"

Aramis beamed, trying to leap over the plates to get to him. Porthos caught him just in time, and Athos whisked the bed-sheets clean before being tugged by two pairs of hands back into bed.

Smothered in salty kisses and buttery fingers, Athos sent off his last email with their comforting weight against his sides, and smiled at the thought of a lazy weekend.

Lucky? He was hallowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure this came out as I had hoped, I'm not particularly fond of it - maybe I should just stick to silly fluff scenes and outrageously hinting at smut, hm?
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	7. Paper Faces on Parade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 7 - Meeting at a masquerade ball._
> 
> I adored this prompt, it was one of those, "I KNOW WHAT TO WRITE" ones; partly because I've always wanted to write an Athamis!Georgette Heyer AU. (I'll eat my hat if Athos isn't the Duke of Avon, "Monseigneur!")
> 
>  **TAGS:** Athos/Aramis, meet-hot, a tiny bit of homophobia/assholes being jealous of Aramis' gorgeousness, 0-60 (I can't stop), sporadic French, _paon_ is peacock, points available.

Aramis fluffed his curls, dotting jewelled pins throughout as he admired himself in the mirror. His Viennese mask was turquoise and purple sparkles, stretching across his eyes and to the tip of his nose, flaring outwards at his ears in a burst of feathers.

Longer feathers tipped in silver exploded from his shoulders so that they sprayed like a collar at his back. His boots had just enough  _click_ in their heel to make him smirk as he swayed into the masquerade ball.

He was fairly certain that Hugh Hefner had just scoped out his derriere – and Aramis knew he'd look damn good in a pair of bunny ears.

Aramis took a contented breath as soft sounds trilled through the air, gentle conversation and classical music; this was his scene, and he was going to rock it.

Ahead of him, he spotted d'Artagnan and Constance as the hearty lion and his fearsome mate, the two bedecked in bronze. Behind him, Treville and his wife arrived, she in a long grey dress with silver crepe finish, and he in a fair imitation of Zorro.

"Live steel," Aramis chided as they passed, "You don't have to take your épée everywhere, you know?"

It took Treville a second to see through his outfit, but when he did, it prompted a toothy grin and a quipped, "And you don't always need to show off, yet here we are."

"Touché," Aramis laughed, and after giving his compliments to Madame Treville, breezed through the gathering crowd as the lights dimmed and spotlights appeared at the top of the long, winding staircase.

Never let it be said that Ninon de Larroque did not know how to throw a party.

Ninon, dressed in champagne gown á la Christine in  _The Phantom of the Opera_ , descended to applause. When the guests returned to their chatter, she crooked a finger at the shadows, drawing forth a figure wreathed in black with a white mask obscuring half of his face.

Interest sparked delicious bites of energy along Aramis' skin.

"This is meant to be hosted by us both, Athos," Ninon said in quiet amusement, and Aramis' breath caught at hearing the man's name.

Comte Athos de la Fère flicked his cape irritably, but all it did was lend a dark mystery to his scowl. "I provided the funds, this caper is all yours."

Ninon's laugh was like the tinkling of champagne flutes. "Fine, I'll take the credit, but you will dance."

The Comte stiffened, his denial palpable. "I will dance with you."

"You will  _dance_ ," Ninon insisted, and gestured to the room, "and maybe someone will finally bring a smile to your face."

Ninon waited until he made a sound that just might have been an agreement, but didn't hear, as Aramis did, the muttered, "That day is long gone."

For a moment, their eyes met, and Aramis fought not to follow him when he disappeared into the throng.

"That's setting your sights high, even for you," he whispered to himself, and pushed all thoughts of dashing phantoms from his head, focusing on the building music, on flaring his feathers in a curtsy to the surprised man opposite.

Aramis twirled under the chandelier, dancing to the violin's higher pitch rather than the cello's deeper one, letting it fill him with aimless joy. Constance danced beside him for a moment, also on the violin's tune, and as they changed partners and swirled around the room, d'Artagnan slid into place and blinked when he realised it was him.

When Aramis grinned at the poor boy, d'Artagnan laughed and barely skipped his step, fingers linking as they stepped around each other, d'Artagnan offering a discreet, "I should have known."

"What, that I dance better than you do?"

D'Artagnan bowed his head in acknowledgement, pressing a brief kiss to his fingers before they parted ways again, Aramis throwing the boy a little heart shape with his hands to make him blush.

It kept him smiling when a few of the dancers were not at all happy to see him, one man even refusing to touch his hand. But when another wrinkled his nose at the silver polish on his nails, Aramis was ready to throw in the towel.

He had heard it all before, but that didn't make it any easier, didn't lessen the sinking feeling.

On his final pattern with the abhorrent man, he timed his escape, bracing his feet to run, but a steel grip clasped his wrist and spun him into the next movement.

Aramis moved on instinct, his feathers fluttering prettily, and as he obeyed the dance and stepped forward, he came chest to chest with his partner, and looked up to see who had forbade him to leave.

Sharp, shadowed, blue eyes stared straight into his, and if he had thought them cold earlier, now they were alight in anger. "I would not have you think you were anything less than dazzling," the Comte de la Fère murmured, and Aramis was so stunned, he almost tripped.

Firm arms caught his waist, turning Aramis' slip into a dip, and for a breathless moment, Aramis was clinging to the Comte's shoulders, his fingers brushing over muscles covered in silk, and he thought that he might happily stay there forever.

The lift came too soon, deft fingers grasping his encouragingly.

" _Aurevoir, monsieur paon._ "

 _No,_ he thought rebelliously as he was spun onto someone else,  _not goodbye, I will find you again._

Aramis bolted to the room's edge to clasp his shaking fingers around a crystal cut glass and nearly choked on bubbles. Spluttering, but fortified, he returned his attention to the pattern of people, and pinpointed the shadow that stepped gracefully to the music.

Aramis, after one more drink and a calculated glance, hurried to the other side of the room and re-entered the dance, still on the violin's tune. Only half of his mind was on his feet, the rest was waiting for a half-mask of porcelain with eyes of azure.

When it came, Aramis relished the brief flash of surprise that lightened a bored expression, and murmured, " _Merci, monseigneur,_ for before. _"_

A pause, and then the slightest of twitches on the one cheek he could see.  _"Pas un probléme, petit paon._ "

Aramis ducked his head in delight, and when he lifted it, the Comte had gone again, lost in a sea of jewels and capes. Aramis scowled, his want not yet fully satisfied.

This time, he waited for the music's cadence to change to something longer, slower, more befitting of his ardent desire to speak to the man behind the mask.

Aramis had no qualms about cutting a woman up when she tried to sneak ahead of him, and he knew he had done the right thing when that faint surprise turned into the most dangerous of smirks.

"People will talk, little peacock."

"Good," Aramis said simply, encouraged by the satisfied glitter in the Comte's eyes as a hand trailed his hip. "Do you mind?"

"On the contrary, I am concerned enough people won't know that you belong to me."

Aramis' grin was both parts shocked and cheeky. "You should give me something distinctive, then."

The Comte's gaze grew thoughtful, but his rhythm didn't falter. "I will want this back," he murmured, slipping a heavy gold ring onto his finger.

Aramis deflated slightly, even as he admired the piece of jewellery, still warm from the Comte's skin. "That wasn't what I had in mind."

"Impatient," the Comte chided, already husky voice dropping to whisper against his ear, "I cannot doas I wish to you, here, but perhaps, over there, in two minutes, you can tell me  _exactly_ what goes on in that beautifully sordid mind of yours." When Aramis shivered delightedly, lips dragged across his jawbone and brushed his mouth in a brief taste of shadows and champagne.

Aramis was left stumbling, his pulse racing when he turned to see the alcove just behind him. Heavy brocade curtains almost hid the painted silk divider, and he worried the ring between his fingers as he slipped behind.

The music was muffled no2, the thump of his heart loud in his ears, but everything seemed to fall away when the Comte appeared, his sigh sounding relieved when Aramis stepped into the scant light and smiled.

A hand reached up to gently remove his mask, and Aramis blinked his silver-lined eyes in surprise when the hand cupped his cheek. " _Bonsoir, mon petit paon._ "

Aramis let a pleased noise escape his throat at the pet name as, beyond the curtain, the musicians built to a crescendo that pounded in time with his blood. Aramis pressed forward, pushing the Comte back a step before he chuckled and held fast, holding him close as he kissed Aramis' eager lips.

Champagne and shadows danced on his tongue.

When they left the alcove, Aramis' feathers ruffled, gold ring still on his finger, his smile was only a shade brighter than the Comte's, whose hand was firmly tangled with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis in jewel tones is just too sexy for words, I don't know if I've done him justice. With no word limit this would have been a slower thing, Athos smirking at him over the champagne, swooping in when he had no one to dance with, the little touches and masked smiles, until Athos finally coaxed him away from the bright lights to flickering candles (upon which there's nooooo returrrrrn)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	8. Requiescat in Pace, Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 8 - Christmas prep (part 1)._
> 
> My apologies if the prompts order has changed slightly, I hadn't updated my master-list before I posted it. Also, wonderful commenters, you are amazing, you got me through this outrageously busy this weekend, and I will get back to you when I can <3
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, implied Constagnan, brawling, bantering, boisterousness, points available for title-and-Athos'-reference.

D'Artagnan bounced with excitement as they pulled into the car park. They tumbled out with a clatter, Athos griping about how he had to sit in the back with 'Mr-fucking-Tickle", Aramis flashing a charming smile until Athos tugged him against his chest, and Porthos chuckling at them both as he slid out from the driver's seat.

"You know you gotta sit in the back, d'Artagnan's legs are too long."

Athos bestowed him with a withering glare when he grinned, but it was lessened by the way Aramis was trying to hide his snicker in Athos' neck.

"Then I should have driven," Athos muttered.

"You could have done if you had bothered to pass your driving test in anything other than an automatic," Aramis teased, skipping away to Porthos' side.

"Manual is a dying breed, it is hardly my fault that vehicles with a stick shift still exist." Athos tried to storm on ahead, but Porthos pulled him back and chucked his chin.

"Stop bein' grumpy, we're pickin' a Christmas tree, s'a fun day."

Athos snapped his teeth at Porthos' fingers, but smirked when Porthos tapped him on the nose. "Fine, I suppose I can rouse some sort of goodwill."

"Atta boy," Porthos murmured, giving Athos a kiss that lasted until d'Artagnan made an aggravated noise and received an unabashed grin. "Sorry, Pup, lead on."

Aramis joined him at the front of their little posse, both of them twittering about where they would go first, which tree they should get, and calling back to Athos and Porthos when they dawdled.

"What about this one?" D'Artagnan asked excitedly of the first tree they saw, and stuck his tongue out when Aramis made a deprecating comment about its lack of tidiness.

Aramis traipsed towards another. "We want one like this, tall, so that it brushes the ceiling!"

Porthos looked up at Aramis' choice dubiously. "That one'd go  _through_ the ceilin', love."

Athos, hands jammed in his pockets, expression complete disinterest, asked idly, "Did no one think to measure the room?"

D'Artagnan blinked at him and sighed sadly, "I didn't think about it."

Porthos bumped him with his shoulder and said encouragingly, "S'not a big deal, we can always cut it down to size if we need to."

"I fail to see-" Athos was cut off by Aramis' elbow to his ribs, and rolled his eyes. "Yes, by all means, let's cover the living room in pine needles."

"I'm gonna drown you in Christmas spirits if you ain't careful," Porthos warned, finally bringing a smile to Athos' face, even if it was small and dangerous.

"Try me."

"Yeah, you wanna go?"

Aramis stepped between the two grinning idiots with his palms high. "Save the foreplay for when we've picked a tree, thank you."

D'Artagnan checked his phone and said distractedly, "You three are so weird."

"So rude," Athos commented as he passed, clearly in a better mood because he flicked the lock button on d'Artagnan's phone. "Do you mind? We're trying to pick a tree."

D'Artagnan gaped at Athos as he sauntered past, and called, "You're such an asshole."

To Athos' credit, he simply smirked over his shoulder rather than listing the reasons why d'Artagnan should be nice to him today. It had taken the whole of November to convince Athos to get a tree, and a further week for it to be a real one.

As they moved on, Aramis and Porthos bickering about sizes, Athos idly brushing pine needles from their clothes, d'Artagnan opened his phone again.

No texts from Constance.

He sighed, wishing he could stop thinking about her. She had already told him that she would be busy this December, that he wasn't to expect her around much – if at all. But everything reminded him of her, the auburn leaves were her hair, the fresh pine was her scent, he had even accidentally-on-purpose come out in the jumper she had bought him last year.

It was navy, and it had a Rudolph on it.

She had said it looked like him.

Aramis yelled at him from the next field, and d'Artagnan self-consciously rubbed his nose as he ran to catch up with them.

Porthos tackled him from behind a tree as he raced past, and they ended up in a tangled mess, d'Artagnan squawking about getting mud on his jumper and Porthos having to twist to catch Aramis when he threw himself at them.

Athos watched with one eyebrow raised in amusement, and brushed the back of his jumper when he complained that he couldn't reach.

"Nothing a wash won't fix," Athos said reassuringly, after demanding that Porthos apologise.

Porthos did so, through a laugh, and offered him some chocolate to make up for it. D'Artagnan ate it grumpily, staying quiet as they continued their wander.

It was useless, they couldn't all decide on one tree – and Athos outright refused to get two, or three, or four. D'Artagnan summoned the energy to climb one of the nearby oaks, but all he did was check his texts when he reached the top, flailing about for signal.

Nothing.

It wasn't as if he loved her or anything, it was just that she was an important part of their family, and she should be there.

She didn't like him back, anyway, Aramis said that he saw her talking to some moustachioed guy outside work, and she hadn't texted him back in ages. Maybe she had forgotten about him.

Now that he had thoroughly disappointed himself, he slid down too fast, his foot catching the trunk oddly and he fell straight into a pile of leaves with a grunt of pain.

"Not quite Arno the Assassin, are we?" Athos murmured, offering him a hand when d'Artagnan pouted from his leafy pillow.

"Stupid tree tripped me up," he grumbled, narrowing his eyes when Athos' lip twitched.

"Yes, that's what Aramis says when he's running across the streets of the Paris, too." Athos kept their shoulders together as they walked back to the others, and as nice as the friendly touch was, it wasn't enough to draw his attention from his phone.

"How's Constance?" Aramis asked slyly, and Porthos cuffed him around the head when d'Artagnan blushed.

Athos quietened them both with a stare and then pointed at the furthest tree. "I think that one was the best."

It was the one that d'Artagnan had picked.

D'Artagnan was torn between jumping for joy or eyeing Athos warily, wondering what he had done to deserve some of Athos' incredibly rare sweetness.

Still, he wasn't going to turn it down.

He managed to shove his gloomy thoughts aside as he and Porthos shouldered the tree, Aramis resolutely refusing to get tree sap on him, and Athos making some comment about 'opening the car boot'.

After ten minutes of swearing, angling, shouting, planning, and a year's worth of pine needles littering all of their clothes, they managed to get the damn thing in.

"It's going to look awesome," he said proudly as they took a breather.

"That it will, and, if we get any deliveries today, Athos will be the first one with a gift under the tree," Aramis announced, winking at the blatant childish interest that Athos tried to hide.

Porthos made a noise of disagreement. "Nah, d'Artagnan's got one already."

He whipped his head up, curiosity giving him something else to smile about. "Really?" He lightly punched Porthos on the arm. "You shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Porthos laughed, "s'from Constance, didn't I tell you?"

D'Artagnan almost stumbled. "What? No, you didn't! What is it?"

"How should I know?" Porthos said with a shrug, but he didn't get to finish it because d'Artagnan launched at him. "Ow! I'm sorry for not tellin' you!"

"You bastard," he cried as they fell to the floor, Athos dragging Aramis out of the way before he could join in, too. "I thought she'd forgotten me!"

Porthos wrestled with him until he caught both of his wrists and panted, "How's she gonna forget 'bout you, Pup? You know she likes you."

"Shut up," d'Artagnan mumbled, his smile crooked and embarrassed as his cheeks flooded with heat.

Porthos latched onto it like the heartless monster that he was and grinned widely. "Aw, Pup's got a crush. D'you hear that, guys? D'Artagnan loves Con-!"

D'Artagnan threw leaves at Porthos' face and then made a run for it, yelping when Porthos growled and came thundering after him.

He stopped in his mad dash for freedom when his phone vibrated, and his chest felt like it might explode with happiness when he saw the long text from Constance, and all the kisses at the end.

He had about half a second to enjoy it, and then he was barrelled to the floor, squirming, as mud was being ground into his hair to the tune of Porthos' laughter.

D'Artagnan found that he didn't mind much, not when he thought of the lovingly wrapped present that would be waiting for him under his tree.

Okay, maybe he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a bit of a Christmas novice, I'm mostly clutching at television and books for these Christmas-related ones. Hopefully they live up to my co-author's standards, who writes some damn adorable Christmas fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	9. Après-Ski, Avant la Nuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 9 - Skiing/ski instructor AU._
> 
> This title was surprisingly difficult, but it was kind of a play on, "The morning after the night before," but, y'know, skiing, and rhymes.
> 
> **TAGS:** Portamis, OT3, referenced Constagnan, 0-60, 0-80, Porthos is definitely a boarder, he designed it himself, and he does all the hot tricks.

It had taken 8 months for Aramis to persuade d'Artagnan to go skiing with him in the French Alps, it took a further 8 minutes to persuade him to go down the black slope on their first day, d'Artagnan having never skied in his life but refusing to back down from a challenge, and Aramis itching to reacquaint himself with the slopes.

Exhilaration buzzed in Aramis' fingers as he gave a feral grin to the excited d'Artagnan beside him. "Ready?"

D'Artagnan nodded adamantly. "I looked up the videos on YouTube, I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, just remember to point your skis in like a slice of pizza if you're going too fast."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother."

Aramis laughed and pulled his sunglasses down, "See you at the bottom, m'boy!" He kicked off, the wind in his hair and the sun in his eyes, and it was  _glorious._ In the distance, he could see the fancy chalets of the lucky few who could afford it, a picturesque backdrop of trees and snow-topped mountains.

If he could see that outside his window, preferably with a cup of coffee and in a gorgeous guy's lap, he would be a happy bunny.

A yelp dragged him from his daydream, and then d'Artagnan bombed past, completely out of control. Aramis winced when the boy crashed straight into a snow drift, skis popping comically out of the bank.

"Wicked spill, dude," Aramis teased when the boy's snow-covered head appeared, but when Aramis had expected a scowl, all he saw was an excited beam.

"Can we do that again?"

The second time was better, by the third, d'Artagnan managed to stand upright the whole time. Of course, the moment he reached flat ground, he tripped over his own skis and tumbled to the floor.

Aramis burst out laughing at his confusion, and a pretty red-head scowled at him as she fluttered over to d'Artagnan's adorable kicked-puppy expression.

They hit it off immediately, d'Artagnan full of young male pride, she cooing over his powder-blue bobble-hat. This must be what it was like the other way around – no wonder d'Artagnan complained about his flirting, this sucked.

Aramis resigned himself to a day alone on the slopes and barely noticed the person who skied up beside him. He did when they laughed, the sound like snow shifting, and when Aramis turned to look at him, the avalanche fell.

"Aramis," he purred, giving his most staggering smile, and the man's grin was as bright as the sun.

"Porthos. Your friend alright?"

Aramis opened his mouth to alleviate Porthos' sweet concern, but then he noticed the ski-instructor tag on his broad chest. "We've never skied before."

Porthos frowned, gaze skipping over his tailored gear, and Aramis knew he'd been found out when the most deliciously sly smile appeared on Porthos' face. "Liar." Aramis gasped in mock affront, and Porthos raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What if I said, if you c'n beat me down the slope, I'll buy you a drink?"

"Deal."

Porthos' pleased laugh sent more snow onto Aramis' soul, until he was trapped beneath and pretty damn happy to be there.

With d'Artagnan happily being coddled by his new admirer, Aramis and Porthos flirted the whole way up the lift, and Aramis instead resigned himself to being totally in love with the rumble of avalanches.

"Go easy on me, I'm a beginner."

"Sure you are, gorgeous," Porthos chuckled, and as they tramped into place, he dug in his pocket for his phone. "Picture to remember me by?"

"You could just ask for my number," Aramis murmured, and snickered when Porthos crooked a finger to summon him over. Flipping his glasses up, he cuddled in closer than was strictly necessary, and smiled when Porthos' arm hooked around his waist.

Aramis squeaked when Porthos found a sliver of skin to press his cold fingers against, and the next few pictures were of the two of them laughing, Aramis scowling at Porthos, and, when Porthos' grin was just far too smug, Aramis darted in like a flash.

Their lips brushed, Porthos making a surprised noise deep in his throat, but his fingers tightening when Aramis tried to pull away.

"Good luck," Aramis whispered, and then he shoved at Porthos' chest and went flying down the slopes.

He giggled when he skidded into the winner's place, and only had a few seconds to enjoy it before Porthos jumped him, rolling so that Aramis was kept safely on top.

Aramis' heartbeat raced, a mixture of anticipation and attraction as he straddled muscular chest. "I won."

Porthos' panting did nothing to help his pulse. "Guess I owe you a drink." Porthos' thumbs moved in thoughtful circles on his waist. "Want t' come back t' mine?"

Aramis inhaled sharply in surprise, and the hopeful light in Porthos' eyes dimmed. "What're you doin'?" he asked when Aramis made no intention of moving from his comfortable perch, and instead reached for his phone.

"Texting d'Artagnan that I'm busy tonight."

Porthos' smile was ridiculously wide, and Aramis struggled not to kiss it. Porthos held his hand as they left the slopes, and Aramis squeezed it nervously as Porthos led him up the driveway of one of those beautiful chalets.

"Wow,you live here?"

Porthos laughed softly as he unlocked the door and ushered him in, "S'my mate's."

Aramis passed one lone picture frame almost hidden by a potted plant, it was of Porthos, gorgeous smile glowing, the Alps behind him. At his side, scowling at the camera but with a tiny up-tilt of his lip, was someone else. "Is this him?"

Porthos rested his chin on Aramis' shoulder. "Yeah, that's Athos, 'e's a moody git."

Aramis heard the fond note, saw the loving smile, and nibbled his lip. "He's cute."

Porthos stilled, and then his mouth brushed across Aramis' ear, sending bolts of heat along his skin. "Yeah, 'e is, said the same 'bout you."

Aramis turned in Porthos' arms. "How does he know what I look like?"

It was Porthos' turn to nibble his lip. "Might've sent a picture to 'im."

Aramis flushed, delighted that Porthos was showing him off. "Where is he tonight?"

"Holed up in his room, drinkin' wine an' watchin'  _Masterchef_ , no doubt." Aramis knew his eyes had lit up when Porthos chuckled in surprise, "You seriously passin' me over for  _Masterchef_?"

Aramis smirked, his palm settling on Porthos' bicep. "What can I say, I like a man that can cook."

"Yeah? Well, so does Athos, an' I can sort you both out," Porthos admitted, and Aramis felt his attraction rock up a few thousand decibels.

"I bet you can," he purred, and Porthos grinned.

"Go sit, Athos'll be down in a bit."

Porthos patted him on the ass as Aramis asked, "How do you know?"

"He always gets peckish 'round now."

Aramis sank down onto the plush sofa, and right as the clock hit quarter past, the most regal of scruffy men halted in the doorway when he saw him. "Oh, I forgot-"

"S'fine, Athos," Porthos called when Aramis was busy staring, "Your food's comin', sit down."

Athos blinked, clearly not wanting to interfere, but then his gaze darted back to Aramis and he tilted his head a fraction of a degree when he realised he was being admired.

"Hey," Aramis said, suddenly shy under Athos' calculating gaze, and something about it must have summoned Athos over.

"Hello, did you enjoy the slopes?"

Aramis brightened when Athos sat next to him, body angled positively towards Aramis. "Yes, thanks, I'm hoping to go out again."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "It will be dark soon."

"You'll have to hold my hand, then." Aramis smiled when he heard Porthos chuckle from the kitchen.

"Don't listen to 'im, Athos, 'e thrashed me."

"Is that so?" Athos smirked, and when Aramis peeked up from under his lashes, murmured, "It would be my pleasure, Aramis."

Porthos landed on Aramis' other side, portioning out bowls of food that had Aramis crowing his praises and Porthos preening. Athos and Porthos were a delight to sit between, fighting over who would feed Aramis from their forks until they started feeding each other, too.

To Aramis' great interest, it was Porthos who blushed when Athos wiped some sauce from Porthos' lip.

Soon, Aramis was cuddled against Athos with his feet in Porthos' lap, Porthos' arm resting along the sofa until he could squeeze Athos' neck. "Whaddya want if Athos beats you?"

"A kiss."

"Deal," Porthos grinned, and Athos' lip quirked upwards.

"A kiss between whom?"

Aramis let his sly smile answer for him, and when Porthos practically choked in flushed surprise, Athos' satisfied laughter filled the room.

It was only with snow in his hair and his muscles deliciously sore, staring out at the mountains with a cup of coffee in his hands and in the lap of a gorgeous guy as he leaned against another, that Aramis realised he had been wrong.

Two pairs of hands were better than one, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many lines I didn't manage to get in, "the avalanche beacon in his head started to beep", "this wasn't the sort of gondola I was expecting", "Well, now I'm piste off". I know, I should be in stand-up comedy. (Also, I have this headcanon that Aramis would find Michel Roux Jr. adorable, damn you Beeb for taking him off Masterchef.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	10. Rain, Sleet, or Shine (I Will Make You Mine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 10 - Mail keeps coming to the wrong address._
> 
> British references galore, my apologies in advance!
> 
> **TAGS:** Athos/Porthos, grumpy!Athos, extremely flirty!Porthos, Athos being an adorable newbie to Christmas stuff (which is basically my headcanon for every prompt).

Porthos lazily flicked through channels, sprawled over his sofa with a television remote in one hand and a beer in the other.

He loved Christmas, if only because of the holiday specials – both snowy episodes and spiced beers.  _The Radio Times_  was open on the floor, one sticky thumbmark on  _A Question of Sport_ , and under his fingertips was half of the pretty label on his bottle.

Wychwood did bloody good ales, though, it had to be said.

A knock at his door had him groaning, rolling ungracefully off of the sofa whilst managing to keep his drink perfectly upright. "C'mon, Tuffers," he called to his screen before he opened his door.

He grinned at the scowl awaiting him. "Hey, neighbour."

Athos' withering look was almost as tasty as Fernando Alonso (and Aramis still hadn't stopped ribbing him for that crush, ribbing him, and wearing that damn cute Ferrari cap).

"Are you unhinged?" Athos asked with forced nonchalance.

Porthos leaned against his doorjamb and sipped from his ale. "Only my jaw from seein' you, sweet-cheeks."

Athos rolled his eyes – which was why Porthos kept teasing him. "Then you're simply foolish, because you  _persist_ in giving people my address instead of your own."

Porthos frowned at the pile of missing envelopes, and joked, "Thought you'd just been payin' my bills, handsome."

Athos' chin jerked upwards, anger blazing in his gorgeous blue eyes. "The next time your correspondence appears in my hands, I will open it."

Porthos snorted in disbelief and simply watched Athos storm away, winking when Athos caught him staring.

They had lived in the same building for a year, but Porthos hadn't even known that Athos owned the whole top-floor, turning it into a luxury penthouse. It was only when the flat numbers were screwed up that his letters started disappearing – and appearing in the form of an angry Athos at his door.

It had become a bit of a game, and honestly, Porthos loved it.

It helped that he found Athos ridiculously attractive with his cold charm and adorable scowls, but as Athos had continued to turn down his requests for a drink, he contented himself with the one-sided arguments at his doorway and the rare (oh-so-rare, like finding a beer for under a fiver in London) smiles he worked tooth-and-nail for.

A week later, after a whole day of Aramis hinting that he had a Ferrari driver's suit for the Christmas party, Porthos whistled a cheerful tune as he headed to his mailbox.

Out spilled envelopes, all sliced neatly across the top, as if they had been opened with a-

"D'you use a fuckin' letter opener?" he growled after charging up the stairs.

"Yes." Athos didn't even react bar the tiniest tilt of his ridiculously kissable lips. "I told you I would open them."

"That doesn't make it okay!"

Athos snorted delicately, "Of course it does."

That posh little noise shouldn't have been so attractive, but Porthos' grin fought through his outrage. "Posh git."

It shined brighter when Athos leaned on his doorway and smirked. "Deaf luddite."

Porthos might have considered it another of their little spats, but as he strode downstairs, he heard a sly, "Until next time."

Oh, it was on.

Porthos wasn't a plotter, not in the whole huge-plans-and-spreadsheets type way. Instead, he was sneaky, he wouldn't storm his target's castle, he would make his target come to him.

And so it was with a mischievous grin that Porthos popped a Christmas card into Athos' letterbox, and hung around until he showed up. Athos smiled when he saw him, but sighed angrily when he saw Porthos' address on the bright envelope, deliberately catching his eye challengingly as he tore the top and flipped the card open, his alluring arrogance drifted away when he saw his name at the top.

"Merry Christmas, Athos," Porthos murmured as he left the lobby, but didn't hear Athos follow him upstairs, only hearing the front door go.

A card slipped under his door an hour later, and Porthos ran to the door, opening it before Athos could slip away, his gaze darting up sheepishly. "Written me a card, Athos?"

"I- I just thought, as you kept getting your letters wrong, perhaps I should just give it to you."

"Give it to me, under my door?" Athos blushed angrily, snatching it from the floor and shoving it against his chest, thumb brushing his collarbone as he did so. "Easy there, tiger, good will to all men an' all that."

Athos' glower could have melted through six inches of steel. "See if I ever write a Christmas card ever again," he muttered, and went to turn away.

Porthos frowned, his grip on the card softening, turning protective. "You've never written a Christmas card before?"

Athos' expression turned defensive. "No."

"Where'd you get this then?" Porthos brandished the card, but when it looked like Athos might snatch it back, he held it possessively against his chest. "Did you.. just buy this?"

"Yes, okay? Yes, I did." Athos' blue eyes flashed furiously, somehow making Porthos feel as if he faced an ice lord, and he a tiny flame.

Athos tried to leave again, but Porthos stepped aside, opening the way into his flat. "Come in, I 'ave beer an' TV."

Athos inhaled a dubious breath, the anger filtering away to leave confusion. When Athos shook his head, Porthos sagged, utterly disappointed, until he noticed Athos' smirk. "Let me get some wine."

Athos matched Porthos' grin and, before long, they were both on Porthos' sofa, Athos showing a surprising knowledge of sports trivia – and the blush on his sharp cheekbones when Porthos tugged on his hair for being a smartass made butterflies dance in Porthos' stomach.

"You doin' anythin' for Christmas?" he blurted out, and Athos froze.

"Yes," Athos admitted, and leaned into the arm curled around his shoulders before Porthos could pull it away. "I'm having drinks with you."

Athos shot Porthos a smirk when he chuckled, "Nothin' gets through like a letter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't have Athos living in a normal flat, he had to have some sort of a penthouse, and now I can't stop thinking of Athos stocking Porthos' beers in his fridge and, if (when) OT3 happens, Aramis only picking the ones with the cute labels (Badger and Troubador)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	11. Cryptic Cringle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 11 - Secret Santa gift exchange._
> 
> I wrote this whilst severely sleep deprived (gotta get the fic to you, beloved readers) so I'm not at all fond of it, I hope it suffices. 
> 
> **TAGS:** OT3, Constagnan, Fleanon, Richeville (is that what it's called? Trevelieu? OH, I LOVE THAT ONE. If it doesn't have a name, can we call it that, please?)

Athos watched the office descend into madness as the gifts were given out, Aramis calling out names from the Christmas tree, d'Artagnan gleefully handing boxes out, Porthos tossing cups to for the punch.

It was good punch, Constance had made it, complete with the sneaky shots of vodka that Ninon had added whenever Constance's back was turned.

Judging by the amount of giggling that was taking place, people were pretty pleased with the result.

Against the wall, Treville had deigned them with their appearance, his cheeks ruddy with alcohol as he dubiously examined the neatly wrapped present with his name on it. Eventually, he tore it open, and blinked dumbly at the contents.

Very slowly he brought out a silk-wrapped package of cigars, emblazoned with gold filigree and fancy symbols; they were clearly the diamond brand of cigars – certainly judging by Treville's gobsmacked expression.

Athos tilted his head, wondering who it was that had bought him such a perfect gift.

There was movement across the open space between the two branches of their business, and if Athos squinted, he could just about see Richelieu holding up a crystal cut bottle of port.

Treville joined Athos at the balcony, his gaze fixated on the other office, and when Richelieu could only meet Treville's gaze for a second, Athos had to smother a smirk.

He hadn't seen that coming.

Better the devil you knew than the devil you didn't, he supposed, as he surreptitiously watched the two men shout at each other as they neared until finally breaking off to laugh sheepishly.

A delighted scream brought Athos' attention back to the room, Flea jumping into Ninon's arms with concert tickets clutched in her hands, Ninon grinning proudly as she added a new key to her keychain.

Athos slid into place between Aramis and Porthos, gaining a kiss from them both and smiles from Constance and d'Artagnan as the five presents were put in the middle.

Athos' wrapping style was tidy, excruciatingly so, and no matter how many times he was complimented on it, everyone seemed to forget that he had little patience for fiddly things and had all of his wrapping done at the store.

Aramis' were covered in bright bows and glittery strands, ribbons covering the crooked mistakes or the gaps in the wrapping, but Aramis' pride in every one of them was beautiful, too.

D'Artagnan's were hastily done, one step away from tin foil wrap, and more like brown paper bags with smiley faces drawn all over them, possibly a doodle if you were lucky. They were unique though, dotted in drawings pertinent to the person, hearts for Constance or suns for Porthos.

Constance's were neat with one bow stuck carefully in the corner, her attention to detail evident in her work, but also her lack of fuss in how nice and simple they were.

Porthos' were the best of all. They were perfect, as if he had measured them, pretty folds, barely there tape, and one loop of ribbon tied perfectly around the whole thing.

"You should be paid for this stuff," d'Artagnan muttered in grudging amazement, and everyone had to agree.

D'Artagnan had bought Porthos coloured chalks, which he immediately broke out and began to use, tongue caught in his teeth as he glanced up at them all occasionally – evidently d'Artagnan was going to get an immediate return on his present.

Porthos had drawn Constance a picture of the five of them, a memory of their holiday to the beach last year, when they had built the biggest sandcastle known to man and Aramis crowned himself king before they toppled him in the sand.

Constance bought Aramis a new pair of UGGs for his already veritable collection, and Aramis' delighted squeak at the gold studs and zebra stripes was almost deafening.

"Constance, you shouldn't have!"

Athos raised a brow. "Seriously, you shouldn't have."

Aramis scowled at him good-naturedly, and thrust Athos' own present into his hands. When Athos had finally worked the countless bows off of the top, he smiled at the fingerless gloves within, putting them on immediately and smirking at the distinct heat to Aramis' pleased look.

The growled remarks in his ear courtesy of Porthos were almost enough to have him forsaking the rest of the party, but then the last present had to be opened.

Athos held his breath when d'Artagnan opened his, tearing into the neat wrapping that the shopkeeper had done, throwing the scraps everywhere.

The boy gasped when he realised what it was, staring at the box within as the others peered in confusion at it.

D'Artagnan looked up at him with a childish grin splitting his face. "You got me a Batman?!"

Athos ducked his head to smile. "I remember you saying that you lost yours after you moved."

"Athos, I love it, thank you!"

D'Artagnan's cries of joy brought stupid smiles to all of their faces, and just as Athos opened his mouth to explain that the mint action-figure was from the depths of Sotheby's auctions, d'Artagnan tore it open.

Athos choked on his own breath, the denial screaming to be released but knowing he couldn't when the boy looked so delighted to  _play_ with the collector's edition figurine.

Aramis gave him an empathetic tense expression over d'Artagnan's bowed head. Then d'Artagnan  _touched_ it, started playing with it across the table, and Athos could feel his eyelid twitching, and Porthos gripped the back of his neck tightly until he could breathe again.

Athos keened, a high-pitched whine tearing him apart as he fought not to cry out – this was d'Artagnan's gift, he could do what he wanted with it.

But  _playing_ with it?

D'Artagnan looked up, his smile turning shy, and Athos had to paste one onto his own face. Athos stammered when d'Artagnan held the figure- _toy_ out to him, and under the hopeful gaze of d'Artagnan, the adoring one of Aramis', and the oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-cry-with-laughter look of Porthos', Athos hesitated.

And then he tried his best to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please imagine Athos awkwardly tilting Batman from one foot to the other in an attempt to _play_ , possibly making fight noises when d'Artagnan scurries off to grab Superman from his computer, and Porthos getting jealous of their fun and bringing back Thor. ("YEAH, MARVEL VS. DC, BITCHES", he yells.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	12. Staying Undercover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 12 - Cold bed._
> 
> This one is deliberately going to remain untagged for pairings, for torturous reasons that you will soon uncover, but it starts with my punny title and some Portamis.
> 
>  **TAGS:** Cuddles.

In his dreams, Aramis was sunning himself on the beach, entwined in his boyfriend's arms and ridiculously comfortable. The breeze was soft, the sand was silky, and the margaritas were sweet.

It was bliss.

Until the warmth began to recede, and in the real world, Aramis was scowling in his sleep as he made small irritated noises. Cold sneaked in around his limbs, the sunlight seemed to be covered by clouds, and there was a complete lack of silk.

"Nooooo," he moaned softly, and heard a faint chuckle from the other side of the room.

"I gotta go, baby, don't be sad," Porthos whispered, fingers returning to smooth Aramis' brow.

"I'm cold," Aramis whimpered, sticking his bottom lip out.

"Don't gimme that, sauce-pot; you're way too temptin' this early in the mornin'." Aramis smiled smugly, rolling into Porthos' warm spot with the stretchiness of a cat. Porthos made an appreciative humming noise. "An' you know it, don't you?"

Aramis nodded, and screamed when Porthos tried to pull the blanket away from him. Aramis curled in on himself, squealing loud enough to cover Porthos' laughter. "You're a monster!"

Porthos relented when Aramis pounced on a hand that had found its way in, and when he wiggled his freezing fingers, Aramis nipped them. "I've gotta go, gimme a kiss."

"No," he called stubbornly from his blanket fort. "You'll let the warmth out."

"C'mon, don't you wanna give me something to remember you by?" Porthos tried to slide his icy fingers against his skin, so Aramis took one into his mouth, savouring Porthos' throaty growl. "Minx, I wanna kiss."

The decision was made for him when Porthos finally found the pressure point on his fort and yanked, leaving Aramis to tumble out. His glare melted away when the bed dipped and Porthos came back to him, scorching mouth easing over Aramis'.

He grumbled when Porthos' shirt kept him from the broad chest within, and had his wrists grabbed when he sneakily tried to undo the buttons.

"Oi," Porthos warned, holding Aramis' lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "Enough of that."

Aramis pouted, arching his body until it rubbed against Porthos', and snickering when he heard the reluctant noise torn from Porthos' throat. "Aramis…"

"Don't go yet,  _mon cher_ ," he pleaded, writhing in Porthos' grip.

Porthos glanced at the clock beside their bed. "I s'pose I can be a few minutes late."

Aramis snorted, "You'll only need one- no, wait!" His laugh was breathless as Porthos snarled, slid one cold hand down the length of Aramis' body, and then left him there, shivering and turned on. "I really will have blue balls, you bastard!"

"Cry more 'bout it, baby," Porthos teased, swept him up for a blindingly hot kiss, and pecked him on the nose. "I'll call you when I get there, love you."

" _Je t'aime aussi,_ " he called, grinning like an idiot until he had to resign himself to a cold and lonely night.

It took five minutes of that, and then he made up a battle plan.

There was absolutely no way he was sleeping in this ice box of a bed, not without someone else by his side, anyway.

Aramis was still in bed when he made the call, nibbling his fingertip uncertainly. He hadn't done this in ages, not since before he and Porthos had moved in together.

His phone clicked.

"Athos?" he carolled pitifully, and heard Athos smile.

"How did I know you would be calling?"

Aramis tipped backwards until he was dangling off of the bed. "Because you love me?"

Athos hummed in amusement, and Aramis imagined him with one arm draped gracefully over his sofa, leg crossed ankle over knee, smile soft and indulgent.

At least, Aramis hoped Athos was feeling indulgent.

"Come over?"

There was a pause, the faint tinkle of a wine glass in the background and a quiet, thoughtful sip. "I'm not meant to see you for another two days."

Aramis sagged, head lolling over his pillows as he sighed, "I know, it's just, Porthos isn't here, and I have this bottle of red and no one to share it with..."

"It would be a shame to let it go to waste," Athos agreed sombrely, and Aramis lazily punched the air in victory. "I'll see you tonight."

"I can't wait," he purred into the phone.

In his dreams, Aramis was sunning himself on a mountain top, the fresh bite of the wind seeming to curl protectively around him, and the grass was smooth beneath his cheek.

In the real world, Aramis blinked sleepy eyes, and lifted his head from Athos' chest to see Porthos smirking at him from the foot of the bed. "Just 'ad to drag 'im down early, didn't you?"

Athos' fingers curled tenderly into Aramis' hair and his voice was amused, "You sound surprised,  _mon coeur_."

Porthos snorted, fingers tugging at his collar as he dropped his jacket to the floor. "No, should've known he'd call you. Guess you were already packed?"

"My things are arriving on Friday, as we arranged," Athos said around a yawn, lifting his chin when Aramis leaned up to kiss his neck.

"Why didn't you move in at the same time as Porthos again?"

Athos shrugged, flipping the blankets aside for Porthos. "I had more things to move, and I thought you could live without me for a few days."

"Y'know that's not true," Porthos chuckled as he slid in, tugging Aramis over so that he could hold each of them in an arm, pausing to give Athos a long, lingering kiss. "M'glad you're here, even if it's 'cause Aramis is a manipulative little fuck."

Athos laughed softly, his blue eyes tired from travelling but happy to be with them. "A gorgeous one, though."

Aramis sighed contentedly, wriggling until he was between them both and it was the three of them again, as it was meant to be.

"When did he call you?"

"About half an hour after you left."

"You greedy little shit!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if I was going to really write Aramis cheating on Porthos, PLEASE. You know it's meant to be the three of them, and I adore them too much to do that to them... Weeell... I'm not saying that TDFS is gonna be painful, but.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	13. Your Body's A (Winter) Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 13 - Snow._
> 
> For those of you that haven't read me before, I have a tiny, weeny fascination with Athos being the Winter King; he's sculpted from ice, he's snow cold, his smile is icicle sharp, and, like a snowflake, he's unique and melts on your tongue...!
> 
>  **TAGS:** Athos/Porthos, snow, cuddles, smut, World of Warcraft references (because Porthos would totally be a gamer, and Athos likes linear questlines).

Porthos huffed into his hands when they started to sting, snow melting under his fingertips. The ends of his jumper were scruffy and wet; the same could be said of his jeans, and his trainers.

To his side, working diligently, was Athos, looking just as well put together as he had when they had first set foot outside. A black peacoat was belted around his waist, the fabric stiff around shoulders that Porthos had savoured moving beneath him earlier.

The only raggedy bit of clothing Athos had on was fingerless gloves, which were Porthos', because Aramis had stolen Athos' fancy leather ones.

"You look warm," he commented, letting his gaze trail slowly over Athos' neat form, shaking his head fondly at Athos' gleaming shoes.

Athos shot him a sly smile as he worked. "I'm surprised you're not melting the snow."

Porthos frowned in confusion, annoyed by the thin scarf unfortunately obscuring his view of the marks he had left on Athos' neck. "Why's that?"

"Because you look like you're thinking impure thoughts."

Porthos snorted, "Ain't I always?"

Athos' smirk was ridiculously satisfied. "Yes, but this was your idea."

Porthos kicked at a pile of snow at his feet. "It was fun at first, I'm bored now."

"Tough," Athos replied mercilessly, "You dragged me out here for a reason, and I will accomplish it."

"Yeah? Well how 'bout I drag you upstairs for a better reason?" Porthos shuffled over, trying to attract Athos' attention by looping his arms around his waist.

Athos twisted in his grasp, palms full of snow hovering precariously above Porthos' head. "I will drop this."

"You won't dare," Porthos growled, and choked on his breath when Athos unceremoniously dumped the snow on his scalp, dusting his hands until even Porthos' eyelashes glistened. "Cheeky git."

Athos would never admit to the near squeak that escaped him when Porthos dragged him closer for a kiss, Porthos flicking his head so that some of the snow dashed into Athos' hair.

Athos made as if to struggle, but when Porthos let him go, Athos pushed flush against him. Porthos groaned, the snow forgotten when Athos' arms came about his neck. "Fuck, Athos, let's go."

Athos continued to kiss him until Porthos was half-mad with lust, and then he slipped away. "No."

"Athos!" Porthos yelled as Athos darted off through the snow, flashing him a taunting smile over one snow-covered shoulder. "Get back 'ere."

Athos scoffed, ruffling his hair until it was clear of snowflakes and he looked utterly debauched, his lips now as pink as his cheeks.

"Not until we've finished this igloo." Athos gestured to the circular wall of snow, the one that Porthos had been so keen to build until he had been distracted by Athos' brow delicately furrowed in concentration.

It was the same look that Porthos had seen just under his palm as his fingers had been buried in Athos' hair.

"But that might take ages," he whined, and Athos gave him an amused look.

"Good things come to those who work,  _mon coeur_ ," Athos announced, and his eyes lidded. "Who knows, finish this, and maybe you will, too."

Porthos froze, attention darting between Athos and the half-finished igloo. "You implyin' that we're gonna make a snowy make-out den?"

Athos raised a hand to tug at his scarf, baring his neck until he could rest a thumb on one of a multitude of suck marks there. The soft gasp that Athos made when he pressed the bruise had Porthos growling low in his throat.

"Okay," Porthos said hoarsely, taking a very determined breath. "I'll fetch the snow, you make the bricks."

Athos sauntered back into place, smile victorious. "I knew you would see it my way,  _mon coeur._ "

Athos made as if to put the scarf back on, but Porthos held out a hand, voice low with barely withheld desire. "Nah, I got a better use for that, later."

"Such sweet promises, Porthos," Athos sighed, looping the scarf over Porthos' shoulders, "yet my ice palace remains incomplete."

"Alright, Arthas," Porthos teased, "You want me to raise a Scourge army for you, too?"

Athos rolled his eyes but his mouth curved. "No, you can be Sindragosa."

Porthos chuckled, and was halfway across the garden before he called back, "Does that mean you're gonna ride me, later?"

"You'll have to wait and see," Athos replied distractedly, already shaping the next brick.

Porthos picked up the pace, only a little distracted by Athos' completely focused concentration.

But bloody Hell, was he damn gorgeous.

"Arise, _dragon bleu_." Athos dusted his hands off as he surveyed their finished project.

"Am I blue 'cause I'm cold, or 'cause you've lumped me in with the blue dragonflight?"

Porthos came up behind him, opening his arms to let Athos fall back against him and snigger, "Both."

"You've done a blindin' job, it 'as to be said," Porthos said honestly, amazed at the smoothed edges and rounded roof – only Athos could manage to work angles and plans into a fun thing like snow.

"I know," Athos said proudly, and raised a foot to kick a brick.

Porthos yanked him back, thoughts only heating again when Athos clung to his jumper to stay upright. "What're you doin'?"

"We need a door, don't we?" Athos murmured against his throat, breath distractingly hot. "Or have you decided to forgo our – what did you call it? – snowy make-out den?"

Porthos hesitated, flames licking up his skin even as he reluctantly eyed the pristine project. "Fine, go on."

Athos dug at the snow, carving out an entrance big enough for Porthos' bulk to squeeze through, and then built up the doorway so that it wouldn't collapse on them, before finally putting a thin layer of snow over the door itself.

"What's that for?" he asked dubiously, mildly claustrophobic now that they were inside Athos' ice palace.

Athos raised an eyebrow at him, stripping his gloves off with some ridiculously attractive efficiency. "I wouldn't want us to be interrupted."

At Athos' dangerous smirk, Porthos' chuckle was husky with the lust that now coursed through him. "Jus' what exactly are you plannin' on doin' to me in 'ere?"

Porthos yelped as Athos launched at him, straddling his hips until there was freezing cold snow at his back and scorching hot Athos at his front.

The dichotomy was painful paradise.

"Okay, I can live wi' this," he said, voice no more than a rumble as Athos sat up, a good few inches between his head and the roof. "Shit, did you plan that?"

"Of course I did, I plan everything," Athos admitted, breath already coming in short bursts as Porthos' hands settled at his waist.

"Your mind is so goddamn sexy." Porthos grinned when Athos laughed, the sound dark and delighted. "This is in the way."

Athos shivered before he had even taken his jacket off, his laugh sounding again as he tugged the dark material off and Porthos made an appreciative noise at the fitted shirt beneath. All of those sharp angles that Athos loved so much in life, Porthos loved on Athos.

There was a flash of hip bone as Athos leaned forward, arms bracing either side of Porthos' head as his mouth brushed Porthos' stubbled cheek. "You'll have to keep me warm."

Pale, speckled flesh hovered in front of him, and Porthos latched his teeth to Athos' throat, adding a new pink mark when he sucked hard and felt Athos arch against him.

Heat seemed to suffuse everywhere, blocking out the cold until all Porthos could hear was their own ragged pants and breathy laughs, both already at fever-pitch as they played with only scant inches of snow between them and the rest of the world.

When Porthos licked the mark he had made, Athos was almost boneless, his sharp eyes glazed with pleasure as Porthos rocked their hips together, eliciting the most delicious noises from Athos' kiss-wet lips.

One cold finger against Athos' back had him stiffening, a jerk of movement that had Porthos stifling a cry, and strings of French poured from Athos' mouth as Porthos had him alternating between relaxed and rigid, admiring the curve of his spine and the tight line of his jaw.

It wasn't often that Athos let him have his way for this long. Athos was patient to a fault, but Porthos' fascination with this new streak of exhibitionism had him wanting to play for as long as possible.

When Athos' moan peaked, he knew he had pushed his luck.

Athos growled, and before Porthos could hold his hands up and beg for mercy, Athos had bitten his jugular and driven an icy hand down Porthos' jeans.

 _Fuck_ was torn from his throat, and Athos' wicked laugh had Porthos clenching his eyes tight shut as his entire body threatened to convulse in ecstasy.

"I have an idea," Athos whispered against his ear, and Porthos couldn't stop the high-pitched groan that coloured the once-frigid air within their ice palace.

"I  _really_  fuckin' love your mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope your week went well, and if it didn't, I hope this almost-smut warmed you up! Also, I totally angst-shipped Alexstrasza and Neltharion (Korial, noooo). I'm not sure what sort of world-ending abilities two mated aspects would have had, but they might have been better than world-breaking.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	14. Tonight, Matthew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 14 - Gazing up at the night sky while laying down on theirs and pointing out different stars and holding hands and shifting closer to one another._
> 
> Points and hugs available for that title reference - apparently Harry Hill's doing a new series, what are the chances?
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, camping, stars, cuddling, Athos being a Latin BAMF, Aramis being a multi-lingual-and-mythology BAMF, Porthos is an adorably naive BAMF.

It took them two hours to get out of the city and into the countryside, another hour for the three of them to figure out the two-man tent that they had mistakenly bought ("Aramis, love, why's this say  _two?_ " "It just means cosy!" " _Sacre bleu,_ I'm sleeping in the car").

Athos had already vowed not to complain about the absolute farcical of an idea that camping in winter was – and honestly, he was doing a marvellous job of it, even if he did say so himself.

Porthos had been fighting with the air bed since the sun had gone down, having refused Athos' offer to buy an electric pump, and finally emerged, out-of-breath but victorious. Aramis jumped into his arms with a pleased shout, calling him his hero.

Athos rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond as Porthos twirled Aramis around. Porthos stopped suddenly, his neck craned upwards, and Aramis crawled from his arms in concern. "What is it,  _mon cher_?"

Athos looked up, his soul immediately settling at the wide spray of stars on the blanket of the night sky, and laughed softly. "Seeing the stars, city boy?"

Porthos would have thrown him a glare if he hadn't been so enraptured by the cosmos, and didn't notice Aramis disappearing inside the tent. After a few minutes, Porthos still staring and Athos having cleared everything away from their dinner, Aramis propped up the front flap of their tent and tied it, revealing the air bed right at the entrance.

"Are we star-gazing?" Athos asked in amusement, allowing himself to be tugged down by Aramis' excited nod, Porthos having the same treatment on Aramis' other side.

"There's just so many of 'em," Porthos remarked, voice low with wonder when they were cuddled together.

Aramis sighed contentedly, sandwiched between the two of them as he pulled a myriad of blankets up. "I used to love doing this when I was younger, did you, Athos?"

"It was the one time I could be alone, I would sneak out to the garden and plot the constellations."

Porthos dragged his attention away from the skies to glance affectionately at him. "That's the cutest rebellious act I've ever 'eard."

"Thank you," Athos replied dryly, and pointed upwards at a familiar line of three lights. "That's Orion's Belt."

Aramis shuffled happily. "If you let your eyes do that thing, the others will come into focus."

"What thin-  _oh._ " Porthos breathed reverently, his face alight with delight. His fascination was beautiful, the starlight playing over their features as Athos' heart felt almost painfully full of love.

"The lower left star is one foot, Saiph, and the brighter one to the right is Rigel," Athos explained, and smiled when Porthos murmured the names after him, committing them to memory. "The brightest one is Betelgeuse, Orion's left shoulder, and the right is Bellatrix."

"Orion was a great hunter in Greek mythology," Aramis added, twining their empty hands together, "In Spanish they pronounce it Orión."

Porthos didn't echo that one, but he made a little mesmerised noise at Aramis' accent. They were silent for a moment, and then Porthos asked wistfully, "Show me more, Athos?"

Athos smiled at Aramis when he tilted his head to grin at him, and dutifully obeyed. "Orion has his own family of constellations; some say that he chases that one, the Hare, Lepus."

"Lièvre," he and Aramis said together, Porthos copying afterwards.

"El Conejo," Aramis said, that faint snap of Spanish entering his tone as he changed dialects, "hunted by Orion and his dogs through the skies, never quite catching him, but never ending."

Porthos squinted at the tiny pinpricks of light, irritation a grumble in his words, "It doesn't look like a hare."

"If you could see the lines it would, the Greeks were artists, after all," Athos said with a shrug, and Aramis snickered.

"They weren't going to call it 'bigger bit on a smaller bit and some ears', were they?"

"Shut up, you," Porthos growled, Aramis' wriggling into Athos' arms as he tried to escape Porthos' wrath. "Yeah, you better run."

"You'll keep me safe, won't you,  _mon cher?_ " Aramis asked with a flutter of his eyelashes.

Once Athos had secured a kiss and ignored Porthos' chuckle, he asked, "Safe from the bull?"

Aramis squeaked excitedly and rolled back into his place to stare at the stars again, "Toro is out?"

Porthos pointed at a bright light above Orion's bow. "I know that one, Taurus, right?"

Athos smiled at Porthos' joy. "Yes, that one is Aldebaran, it's a red giant."

They both looked at Aramis, waiting for the story, and after stealing a kiss from them both, Aramis said, "Taureau, the mighty bull, standing up to the legendary hunter Orión. In Greek myth it's identified with Zeus, and it was said to be the myth of the Cretan Bull."

Athos made an interested noise. "One of The Twelve Labours of Heracles?"

"The very same," Aramis replied smugly, pleased that he had surprised Athos, and giggling when Athos tugged on one of his curls.

Porthos got up on his elbow to look at them, his grin crooked. "You two are such nerds."

Aramis squawked indignantly and Athos simply raised an eyebrow. "And your encyclopaedic knowledge of Batman, isn't?"

"Hey, the bat-signal needs clouds," Porthos defended, "Bruce ain't got time for stars."

Aramis straddled Porthos' hips, pulling Athos with him he would have resisted. Athos' resolve faltered and he rose onto his knees to slide his fingers into Aramis' hair, their mouths meeting in a hot rush amidst the cold.

Beneath them, Porthos stiffened, and a hand settled on each of their hips, thumbs coaxing.

Athos' lip curved as Aramis was torn between more kisses or arching against Porthos, and Porthos met his smirk with a chuckle, "Somethin' to be said for the countryside, eh?"

Athos hummed in agreement as he bit Aramis' neck, making him jerk against Porthos and eliciting a throaty groan. "Time to see some stars,  _les lumières de ma vie._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting obvious that my headcanon persists through my fics, isn't it? Porthos, the city slicker, street-smart and smog-smothered; Aramis the traveller, roaming the countryside in search of poetry (and conquests); and Athos, the country lord, too misanthropic and too analytical to see them beyond points on a chart. Together, though, they sync, and the stars sync with them, and they see a new wonderful world through each other's eyes.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	15. Hackney Sleigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 15 - Sleigh ride._
> 
> I had some severe semantic satiation with the word 'sleigh' in this one, and as I've never ridden a "sled" in my life, this was the first thing my mind jumped to.
> 
> **TAGS:** Portamis, homesickness, Porthos is the sweetest sweetie that ever sweetied.

Aramis slumped in his chair, head smacking against the glass of the train's window, evening newspaper folded against his hip, and exhaustion a steady thrum behind his eyelids.

Normally, he loved December, that excitable build up to Christmas, the tinkling tinsel and scramble for presents, the promise of snow over the mountain villas.

But that was the problem; it was his first December away from home, away from his family, away from  _Navidad._  There wouldn't be any snow here in the city, melted by grit and traffic, no sled rides or snowmen.

How would it feel like a proper Christmas?

It wasn't Porthos' fault that Aramis was homesick, of course, and Porthos tried his best to keep up with Aramis' demands for more lights, more baubles, more crackers, and a traditionally huge turkey that would be way too much for the two of them ("Well, we'll 'ave people 'round for dinner, sweet, I promise").

He was meant to be meeting Porthos now, in the centre of town, but he looked like shit; his tie was loose, his hair was a mess, and he really,  _really_ wanted a coffee.

Aramis filtered out with the rest of the crowds, maintaining his weary plod as he left the station and went in search of his boyfriend.

It didn't take long, he saw Porthos leaning against a wall, absent-minded scowl warning people away, nobody fooled by the bright, gaudy Christmas jumper that Aramis had bought him.

It had reindeers mounting each other if you looked closely enough, and Porthos still hadn't noticed.

It would have made Aramis smile even if his heart hadn't already lifted at the sight of Porthos, and it lifted even higher when Porthos saw him, scowl melting away to be replaced with the bright grin that Aramis adored so much.

This was worth it, as were the strong arms around his waist and the soft kiss of greeting.

"Had a good day, sweetheart?"

Aramis collapsed against Porthos' chest and sighed, "No, but it's better now."

Porthos' chuckle rumbled against his cheek, "Yeah, I know the feelin'." Aramis nudged onto his tiptoes for another kiss, humming happily when Porthos obliged. "C'mon, got somethin' to show you."

Aramis frowned, their hands linking as Porthos guided him through the masses. "What is it?"

"S'a surprise."

Aramis gave up control of the situation to Porthos and simply enjoyed being towed through the park, presuming it was a shortcut to the street over.

"Here we are, then," Porthos announced suddenly, high-pitched with nervousness as he dropped Aramis' hand to walk forwards, and Aramis blinked in confusion at the scene in front of him.

And then his jaw dropped.

It was one of those carriages for tourists, the ones drawn by horses and steered through the pretty parks, the ones you rolled your eyes at when it passed with its tackiness.

Except that this one, the one that Porthos was fidgeting next to, was a deep red, bedecked by pine wreaths and decorated with cones and tiny golden bells. At its front, the horses' halters had tiny reindeer antlers linked around their ears, and their tack was lined with pretty ribbons.

The wheels were coloured silver, as if they were meant to be…

"It's a sleigh," he said numbly, breaking the chaotic silence of the city, and one of the horses tossed its head to stare at him.

Its noseband was red.

Porthos gave him a smile, lopsided with anxiety. "They don't actually 'ave reindeer for these – d'you know that only girl reindeers 'ave antlers? – so I got horses, s'that okay?" Porthos was babbling, but Aramis was still too shocked to say anything. "An' I know that technically s'only a sled with those metal things on the bottom, but they didn't even let Bond go 'round London in a tank without messin' with the road, so…"

Aramis drifted forward when Porthos held out a hand, instincts taking over.

"After you, love," Porthos encouraged, lifting his fingers so that Aramis could step up into the  _sleigh._.

Still stiff with disbelief, he only relaxed when Porthos fell onto the padded bench next to him, giving the okay for the driver to start. With a whicker, the horses stepped forward, bells ringing softly as they clicked along the path.

"Is it a bit corny?" Porthos asked nervously, shoulders falling in disappointment. "S'a bit corny, ain't it? Ah, shit."

Aramis caught Porthos' flailing hands with his own and laughed, the sound surprised and delighted and bright, falling against Porthos' chest and kissing him soundly, silencing the doubts. "It's beautiful,  _mon cher_ , thank you."

Porthos raised a dubious eyebrow, the scar pulling tight as Aramis traced an adoring finger over it. "You sure? I jus' wanted to do somethin' nice, I know 'ow much you love Christmas an', well, I don't know 'ow to do the big champagne-and-chariots thing."

"This is better," Aramis insisted, thumb ghosting over the tentative curve of Porthos' mouth. "And a sleigh is like a chariot, right?"

"Right," Porthos agreed, relief clear in his eyes, and he reached behind him to pull out a bright red cardboard cup, familiar lettering and logo gracing one side. "S'not champagne but I got you a toffee nut latte."

Aramis inhaled reverently. "With whipped cream?"

Porthos grinned, his nervousness finally disappearing. "For you, sweet, 'course."

"You're my hero," Aramis groaned, licking his lips when he coated them with cream. Porthos was there after his next sip, tongue easing in a scalding path over Aramis' lip before delving between. Porthos took the cup before he could drop it, and Aramis' hands immediately went to Porthos' shirt, needing to hold him close to steady against the piercing happiness in his soul.

Aramis smiled, nudging their noses together. "This is perfect. You knew me too well,  _mon cher_."

"Nah," Porthos said softly, cupping Aramis' chin to kiss him sweetly, the little lights twinkling around them as they rode through the city in a sleigh, "Not yet, but we 'ave the rest of our lives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are so cute that I think I might develop diabetes, sometimes. Once again, my novice skills with Christmas are becoming apparent, hope it came across okay!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	16. Cookie-Cutter Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 16 - Cookies._
> 
> I have come down with some brutal form of flu, so only 1k today, I'm afraid. Also, this title is misleading, the boys are so not cookie-cutter, but my head is too fuzzy and the alliteration pleases me.
> 
>  **TAGS:** Portamis until right at the end, then OT3, Aramis and Porthos' kinks, and now Athos', you know I love their power play, also reference points available for a doughy version of a film scene...

"Clearly," Aramis stated, hands propped on his slender hips, "it's a disaster."

Porthos rolled his eyes at his melodramatic boyfriend, who was perfectly exhibiting the five stages of grief, having gone from panicky denial all the way through to very grudging acceptance.

Over cookies.

"Christ, babe, will you calm down? We'll work somethin' out."

Aramis shook his head, quick and fatalistic. "Everything's ruined; I don't know why we even bothered to get up this morning."

Porthos' smile was reluctant and adoring, and he pulled Aramis from his stoic stance so that he overbalanced into Porthos' arms. Porthos brushed a kiss against the wild curls, ruffled and flour-speckled from constant worrying.

"We got up 'cause you were hell bent on this madcap idea an', for some reason, I went along with it."

"It's a good idea," Aramis insisted, his voice muffled against Porthos' chest. "It's just not working."

Porthos snorted, the sound echoing around their kitchen, "We lost one egg, Aramis, s'not the end of the world."

Aramis pulled back, righteous scowl pursing his pretty little lips. "It is when we've already broken three!"

Porthos grinned when their mouths met, unable to help himself from stealing a grumpy kiss. "Shouldn't've tried to copy my jugglin' then, should you?"

Aramis hummed, his scowl turning into a smile. "You would draw such a crowd at the circus."

"Yeah? I could do some magic. Porthos the Magnificent?"

Aramis shook his head, hands falling until they clung to Porthos' biceps, snickering when he flexed. "Porthos the Powerful."

Porthos hefted Aramis around the waist, spinning him around until Aramis was giggling breathlessly and Porthos was the only thing keeping him up. "You jus' wanna see me in a leotard."

Aramis' eyes gleamed with mischief. "Who wouldn't? I could oil you up beforehand."

"Like you'd let me go after that," Porthos murmured, and Aramis licked Porthos' lips.

"Mm, stop," Aramis murmured through their kiss, "We need to buy more eggs."

Porthos grumbled good-naturedly. "Why's Athos gettin' all your generosity?"

Aramis linked their hands as they walked down to the corner-shop. "Because you've not been away for two weeks, and you know Athos needs to be eased back into reality when he comes home."

Porthos chuckled, "Reality bein' you all over 'im and me tryin' to get 'im on my lap?"

Aramis' smile was dark. "Precisely, and cookies will accomplish that."

When they returned – with far more eggs than they needed – Porthos thought aloud, "What'd Athos be in our circus?"

Aramis paused with his fingers in the dough, and Porthos came up behind him to play with his hands, mimicking kneading. "Athos the Antagonistic," Aramis said finally as the two of them worked the dough together, "would be the lion, I'd keep him back with a whip and chair."

Porthos chuckled, low and interested, "As much as I wanna see that, I get the feelin' that he'd 'ave you over that chair pretty damn fast."

Aramis purred, no intention of denying it, "That's a different sort of show,  _mon cher._ "

Porthos braced his knuckles on the counter, leaning in close to whisper in Aramis' ear, "I dare you to answer the door in nothin' but an apron."

Aramis scoffed as if he had answered the door in less – and Porthos knew with vivid clarity that he had.

"How is that a dare?" As if a light-bulb had suddenly switched on, Aramis' lip lifted to reveal his teeth in a predatory smile.

"No," Porthos said immediately, "Don't say it."

Aramis was a slippery fucker and twisted away from his hands. "I  _dare_ you."

Porthos snarled, the rules of dares coming about him like a noose. "Fuckin' 'ell, Aramis, s'not fair!"

Aramis winked suggestively. "You have to be prepared to take it if you want to give!"

Porthos raised an eyebrow, accepting his fate having gone through the five stages in record time. "Yeah? Think Athos'd like my domestic 'usband look?"

"You bent over the floury counter?" Aramis snickered when Porthos mock-growled. "Now that's something  _I_ would like to see,  _Porthos the Powerful_."

It was only Aramis catching sight of the time that kept him safe, Porthos putting aside the heat curling low in his stomach because Aramis needed him to.

"I 'ope Athos realises 'ow fuckin' lucky he is," he muttered from the doorway, plucking at the string that now ran just over his ass. It was bloody breezy in here, too. "Oi, you ain't allowed to look at me like that."

Aramis looked ready to eat him, his gaze flicking over the exposed skin, until Porthos had to look down at the apron's front. "D'you think the hearts are a bit much?"

"The hearts, no," Aramis' voice was starting to roughen, "but the pink gingham is the cherry on the cake."

The doorbell went and Aramis shooed him off. "Distract him, it shouldn't be difficult."

Porthos ran a surprisingly nervous hand over his scalp, but his smile was 1000-watt bright when he opened the door to see Athos back where he belonged, attention rapt on looking for his keys.

"Remind to never fly again, the airport was murd-" Athos had clocked the bright pink in his periphery, and all tiredness left his face as he slowly raised his gaze.

"Welcome 'ome, love."

"It certainly is," Athos murmured, lifting one finger to twirl in a circle, requesting a show. When Porthos bared his teeth at him, Athos smirked. "I hope you have icing left."

Aramis appeared beside him, pinching Porthos' ass and slipping into Athos' arms for a kiss. "I made extra. Gorgeous, isn't he?"

Porthos dared Athos with his scowl to call him something pretty, already enjoying the fight for control, the one that was always harder fought after Athos had been away. Pride and solitude still clung to Athos' straight shoulders, but Porthos knew how to make him bend.

It involved him bending, too.

"Delectable," Athos teased, and Porthos dragged them both into the house.

Aramis had re-floured the counter and, soon, dusty handprints decorated the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I doing too much hinting at smut? I feel like I'm, er, fictionally cock-blocking you all (ha!). My beta has demanded ( _demanded_ in many shouty texts) that the next smut I write is for [this](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/105292580436/mind-the-gap-part-2-thar-be-thieves) 'mini' story I'm writing on Tumblr, though, so keep an eye on that if you wan' it!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	17. Auction Without Reserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 17 - Charity date AU._
> 
> So many auction jokes I couldn't do, but I managed to get one into the title, huzzah. 
> 
> **TAGS:** Athos/Aramis, squinty OT3, suspense of belief, 0-80, duuu na, duuu na, dun dun dun dun dun, da nana! It's evil Marsac, the easiest scapegoat!

Aramis was on top form, even if he did say so himself.

He was waiting in the wings of the stage, pulse fluttering nervously, fingers settling and resettling his deep red tie (done up, too formal; undone, too relaxed - it was a potentially catastrophic decision).

It was just like when he had been in the school play, rehearsing his lines and frantically scanning the crowds for his parents, only calming when they waved back.

At least all he had to do here was look pretty.

And yes, okay, maybe he did glance out into the audience, panicking until he caught Porthos' eye, and breathing easily when Porthos flashed him a thumbs up.

In hindsight, he had probably jumped a little eagerly at this, but Constance had said it was for charity, and who wouldn't want to be wined and dined by the country's rich list?

Because Aramis was expecting a pretty penny – a new, mint, fresh-off-of-the-machines five pound coin, in fact.

He did look marvellous after all, he should do after he had spent far too long being tailored for a suit and searching for the exact colour and material he wanted.

He called it  _cosmos black_ , because the moment his name was called and he stepped into the spotlight, tiny fragments of glitter shone like stars amidst the fabric.

Aramis heard Porthos' wolf whistle over the smattering of applause, and it turned Aramis' small smile into a genuine one as he winked at the crowds.

The bids started small, a few well-dressed women giving him the once-over from behind their bidding paddles. Naturally, he blew a few kisses, and when the bids started to increase, Aramis tugged at his bow tie until it draped down his collarbones, and undid his top two buttons.

Never let it be said that he didn't know how to work a room.

The bids progressing at steadily higher and higher levels, Aramis relaxed. He didn't care who he went out with, it was understood that this was a rather genteel affair – not that you could tell from Porthos' glower when a man with a three times his agemade a bid.

Aramis could remember Porthos' growl against his ear before the auction, the brief tussle in the wings as Porthos made his very own, utterly superior bid for Aramis. They had only been going out a year, but Aramis gloried in the possessiveness, nonetheless. "It's for charity,  _mon cher_ ," he had soothed, and his voice had peaked when Porthos marked his neck, "I'm coming home to you."

" _You're goddamn right_."

Aramis let his smile take on a darker curve as he once again locked eyes with Porthos, who looked very much like the cat that would later be getting the cream.

A hush overcame the room when a jump in bid came, and Aramis twitched in shock as he sought the bidder out, looking for the flash of white from the raised paddle.

An unpleasantly familiar face looked back at him, and Aramis' stomach dropped.

How the hell had Marsac managed to find him here?

Aramis began to fidget, his earlier calm lost as he stared at the man he had once thought he loved. Marsac shouldn't even be here, let alone bidding, he had no riches to speak of – which meant that he was bidding with money he didn't have.

Aramis scowled, disgusted, but Marsac just gave him a taunting smile and bid again, essentially telling Aramis that he was stuck with him, just as he had once before.

But Aramis had escaped then, and he would again, if only he had someone to outbid for him. Porthos would, if he had the cash, but he was only here for the free bar and under oath from Constance that he wouldn't start a fight.

Defeat tasted bitter in Aramis' mouth, and he must have looked pitiful, because a frown creased Porthos' brow before he leaned over to the man sat next to him.

Aramis had noticed him, of course he had, he was sat next to Porthos for one, and the other was the impeccable cut of his otherwise plain suit, and now it was the appraising gaze that suddenly locked Aramis into place, as if he were a horse at a show.

Marsac's bid was still last, still falsely large, and Aramis tossed his head in distress when silence reigned. Oh God, he didn't want to do this anymore, but he didn't want to cause a huge fuss, either. Just as the gavel would have struck, Porthos' friend crooked a finger at the auctioneer.

"Athos de la Fère has bid, going once?"

The name pinged in recognition, one of Porthos' friends from the orphanage, the one who travelled a lot and pretended not to donate money to all of Constance's charities.

Porthos had said that Athos  _ain't the usual fare of friend, but if 'e needs me, I 'ave his back, and same goes for 'im._

Aramis sagged with relief. This had gone even better than he had hoped; dinner with someone rich, attractive,  _and_ a friend of Porthos? As Aramis admired the blue eyes currently lit with amusement instead of appraisal, he wondered exactly how  _close_ they had once been.

It was an arresting image.

Beaming, he mouthed, "Thank you", and received a tiny glimmer of a smile.

The glimmer disappeared when Marsac bid again, and Athos' gaze turned truly haughty, as if he couldn't believe someone would dare come up against him.

It was outrageously attractive, and beside him, Porthos grinned ruefully. Without looking away from Aramis, Athos crooked another finger.

Aramis' heart sank when Marsac kept bidding, the numbers reaching fairly extortionate levels, until even Porthos was starting to look uncomfortable, whispering forcefully into Athos' ear and resolutely ignored.

Those blue eyes seared into his, offering him an anchor in the tumult of uncertain fate.

When no answer came to Athos' latest bid, Aramis' attention swerved, but Marsac was gone.

Offering the applauding crowd an exhausted grin, he stepped off of the stage and finally allowed himself to slump. The heat from the spotlight and the stress from Marsac's presence had him sagging against the wall, tousling the curls he had spent so long perfecting.

Aramis stiffened when Marsac's voice trailed through the wings. "If I'd known it was being fought over that turned you on, I'd have thrown you to the dogs long ago."

Aramis raised his gaze from the floor to face the sneer. "Leave me alone, Marsac, you lost, twice."

"To that posh twat?" Marsac scoffed, the sound harsh and horrible. "Just because you escaped me once doesn't mean you will again." Marsac's voice grew falsely soft, taunting, a mockery of affection, "Little whore."

There was a movement in the shadows, and when Marsac turned, it was to catch a fist on his chin, his eyes rolling back as he fell to the floor, defenceless.

"Porthos," Aramis smiled exhaustedly, "thank go-!"

Athos stepped into the dim light, sighing as he rubbed his knuckles. "Constance is never going to believe this."

Aramis' jaw dropped a little, he couldn't deny that his blood always ran hotter when someone fought for his honour, and to see Athos' once neatimage skewed was, well, it was delicious.

So Aramis did what he always did, he reached for the reddened knuckles and gently massaged the unblemished skin, knowing all too well what Porthos liked after a brawl.

It took him a moment to realise that Athos had frozen.

"Thank you," Aramis said sincerely

"You're welcome," Athos replied softly, the strain on his face smoothing out to be replaced with confusion.

Athos was staring at him intently, until Aramis wasn't sure whether to fidget or flutter his eyelashes. Instead, he froze, because Athos' uninjured hand came up to his cheek almost reverently.

Fingers settled under his ear, thumb pressing gently on his cheekbone, and heat sparked everywhere they touched.

For a single, insane moment, all Aramis could think of was kissing his knight in shining armour. Aramis almost swayed into the touch when Athos pulled away to say sheepishly, "Your, ah, eyeliner, was smudged."

"Oh," he said stupidly, and hid his disappointment when Athos let him go completely by flicking his fingers under his eyes. "Figures, it took me ages to do it."

A faint flush suffused Athos' cheeks, so very different from the arrogant bidder Aramis had seen. "Well, you still look enchanting."

Aramis grinned, ducking his head. "Thanks. Look, I know Porthos asked you to bid for me, but don't worry about it, you've more than paid your debt."

"It's fine, I had a cheque for Constance anyway, I hadn't planned on bidding but," Athos' mouth curved, "I daresay we could both use a drink?"

Athos held out an arm, and Aramis took it immediately, sliding up against his saviour's side a little closer than was probably necessary, but Athos smiled. "Should I invite Porthos?"

Aramis hummed in consideration. "Maybe for our second date?"

Athos' soft, delighted laughter rang throughout the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was surprisingly difficult to write, I went over 1k without thinking and then had to seriously cut down. I still claim a fuzzy head from the flu, so I hope there's no mistakes or anything!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	18. Snow Chance in Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 18 - Snowed in/blizzard._
> 
> This was meant to be more reluctant!Athos - hence the title - so that Porthos could be his persuasive self, but Aramis insisted on being involved and that changed the whole plot of the story. This could essentially be rewritten if someone wanted to prompt me "snowed in" with Athos/Porthos smut, one day.
> 
>  **TAGS:** Eh, Athos/Porthos, Athos/Aramis, it's more just Athos being a pessimistic little shit, and Porthos an optimistic one.

Athos drummed his fingers on the wooden table, wondering why on Earth he had thought it a good idea to lend his beloved chalet to d'Artagnan and Constance.

Essentially, he had been driven out of his own holiday home by some puppy-dog eyes, and was now awaiting Aramis' arrival in a cabin situated at the arse end of nowhere, at the foot of a snow-capped mountain.

Athos balefully eyed the swiftly diminishing pile of wood. He would have to send for more, or, if Aramis had his way, Athos would be out chopping a tree under Aramis' appreciative gaze.

As he chucked the last log onto the blaze, he paused at a faint rumbling through the floor, and his attention skipped to the Richter scale on the wall. It danced perilously in the danger zone.

Oh, somebody had to be fucking with him.

Athos ran for the door, yanking it open to see a veil of powdery snow already sprinkling.

"Move!"

Somebody slammed into Athos' chest, propelling him onto his back until he could see the full force of what was crashing towards them.

Athos scrambled up, slamming his back against the door and jolting when the first of the barrages hit. His stance trembled, and he knew he couldn't hold it back.

Wonderful, he was going to die in the middle of nowhere, like a fool, and he still had half a glass of wine left.

Suddenly, the stranger was there to help with the load; arms braced either side of Athos' head, their bodies almost brushing until Athos felt ridiculously large muscles seemingly everywhere.

"So, you come 'ere often?"

Athos blinked up at the widest grin he had ever seen. Of course, he was going to die in the arms of a sarcastic idiot, perfect.

That was what Aramis had said he had always planned to do, the cheek.

The rumbles seemed to go on for hours, but in reality, it was probably only for a few minutes, the door jolting as each fresh layer of snow packed down upon the house.

The silence, when it came, was deafening, and Athos took an unsteady breath.

It brought his chest into contact with the stranger's, who had been staring at him with some blazing determination since the avalanche started. It faded now, and relief took its place, soon followed by that wide grin again.

"Guess we're stuck 'ere."

Athos made an irritated noise at how bright that smile was, and pushed away, snatching up his wine for a restorative draught.

It had gotten cold.

"I'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with me," Athos quoted morbidly, and raised an eyebrow. "For someone who barely escaped death, you're awfully chipper."

That wide grin was really  _not_ growing on him. "C'mon, you'd've been dead if it wasn't for me."

"And I wouldn't have been dead if I hadn't been here, a life lesson that generosity is a fool's game," Athos sighed, cradling his wineglass in the palm of his hand.

"Right little ray of sunshine, ain't you?" A chuckle that was reminiscent of the shifting powder rumbled through the room. "I'm Porthos, and at least we 'ave a fire."

"Not for long," Athos replied, living up to the tease and refusing to even entertain the notion of what would happen once the fire died. Porthos simply smiled, a question in the fire of eyes that seemed so antithesis to the settling snow of his laugh. "Athos," he said finally, after his skin started to prickle.

"Well, Athos, we'll just 'ave to find other ways of keepin' warm, eh?" Porthos gave him a wink and then set about brushing the snow off of his clothes, completely missing the way Athos frowned.

Was he being flirted with?

Surely not, surely the little hitch in his pulse was because... because, dear God, they were going to run out of wine, soon.

Athos, only mildly frantic, checked his phone, and froze when he saw the single bar of signal.

A message came back almost instantly, filled with capital letters, kisses, apologies, and promises. It made a smile curve Athos' lips, and he realised a moment too late that he was being watched.

"You look good with a glass in your 'and."

"It's my natural state," he murmured, now aware of the amused attention. "I've called the cavalry. Aramis," Athos hesitated, the words dying on his tongue.

"What?"

Athos sighed, his cheeks beginning to heat. "Aramis is demanding picture-proof that I'm okay."

Porthos snorted, "That's cute, is he gonna freak if I'm 'ere?"

Athos felt a rueful – yet incredibly fond – laugh escape his throat. "I told him. The opposite, I think he'll join the excavation team in efforts to see you face-to-face."

Porthos grinned in surprised delight. "You sayin' I'm hot?"

Athos stammered, as unused to flirting as he was to  _lager_. "I don't recall saying that."

"S'just, by the door, you jumped every time we touched."

Athos very nearly spluttered. "I thought we were going to die."

Porthos scoffed, as if he were the king of avalanches, "I wasn't gonna let you die."

As if tempting fate, the fire gave a final sputter, and Athos pointed at it with his wineglass, definitely not at all affected by the protectiveness. "Clearly, you are."

Porthos' chuckle was soft and indulgent, "Look, I'll be sat over 'ere, an' if you get chilly, I'll keep you nice an' warm."

Athos looked up, startled that Porthos was still flirting with him.

Aramis would  _really_ like him.

"Fine," Athos agreed, forcing reluctance into his tone, and stalked over, hesitating whilst Porthos settled on the sofa, until he was dragged down beside him. "Do you mind?"

"Do you?" Porthos asked against his ear, chuckling when Athos couldn't help curling into the warmth Porthos provided.

"Yes," Athos lied, and when Porthos gave him that wide, gorgeous grin, he decided that perhaps an avalanche wasn't the worst thing to happen to him.

The lack of wine, though, that was barbaric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt sub-standard, apologies, I'm valiantly fighting off this flu before I'm busy over Christmas. Tomorrow's will be fluffy!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	19. Green Jumpers and Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 19 - Christmas prep._
> 
> There was meant to be fairy lights and presents, but it ended up 'Fairy Tail' and general presence; it's more about them... just being, friends and brothers and, well, family.
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, hinted Constagnan, I am far too adoring of these four living together, of Athos tolerating them all, and d'Artagnan putting up with the three of them, they could be fully-functioning adults in the working world but they still act like kids.

D'Artagnan wriggled in his bed, one eye flicking open to see weak, wintery sunlight creeping through his curtains. He lingered for a moment, fingers curling on his blankets, pondering the mystery of how socks disappeared during sleep, and then he checked his phone.

He rolled out of bed.

"Wake up!" He smacked a palm on the wall and then hurried around his room, nearly toppling when he tried to put two legs into one hole of his jeans. There was no movement from next door, so he smacked the wall again.

"Go back to sleep, d'Artagnan!" Porthos yelled, Athos' annoyed grunt following.

"No, you said we could start decorating at 10, and it's  _already_ 8 minutes past!"

Very faintly, he heard an exasperated, "Why didn't you turn his clock back?"

"I did, 'e must've checked 'is phone."

D'Artagnan frowned, and then he saw that the clock on his wall showed two hours earlier. "You guys are such jerks."

Aramis sleepy laugh tinkled through the walls. "Maybe we should get up."

There was a squeak and then an angry growl, which had d'Artagnan dragging a jumper over his head and making a disgusted face. He might have considered barging in and throwing things at them, but not after he had been mentally scarred the last time.

So he settled for pitiful.

"C'mon," he whined, fingers against the wood, "you promised."

"Oh my god, is 'e scratchin' at our door?"

"And Athos said we weren't allowed pets," Aramis snickered, before yelping again.

" _Guuuuuys!_ "

Faintly, he heard one of Athos' reluctant sighs, and smiled in victory. "Fine, we'll be out now."

"Yeah, just give us a couple minutes," Porthos called, and chuckled when d'Artagnan made a vaguely scandalised noise.

"I didn't sign up for this softcore porn in the tenant's agreement, you know!"

"You didn't sign an agreement at all, you little rat," Athos' voice was muffled as if he was getting dressed, "that's why I couldn't sue you for breaking not one, but  _three_ of my lamps."

"An' it's so much more than softcore," Porthos added mischievously.

D'Artagnan hid his laughter in the sleeves of his bright red Christmas jumper and was halfway down the stairs when he called, "I'll make you a coffee if you come down right this second."

There was a scuffle, and then Aramis saying, "Athos, no, cuddle with us!"

"The boy was a barista," Athos' strained voice replied, as if he was trying to escape from their grasps, "I am having my damn coffee."

" _I'll_ make you one, just get back into bed," Aramis pleaded, edging on a breathless laugh.

"Yours aren't as good," Athos replied distractedly, and d'Artagnan winced when Aramis made an indignant noise.

D'Artagnan knew that had sealed Athos' fate, so he turned the radio on to drown out Athos' sudden backpedalling and the sound of someone getting tackled.

Instead, he popped bread in the toaster, unearthed some jam from the cupboards, and settled down to watch Netflix on his phone.

This was how Athos found him, twenty minutes later, looking his version of askew (it was Athos, he always looked scruffy, you couldn't tell if he had just walked a street or somersaulted all the way down it).

Athos eyed him warily, obviously unsure if he would kick off for them taking so long, but d'Artagnan just tilted his head at the counter where a cup of coffee awaited him.

A pleased smile graced Athos' face, coupled with some healthy suspicion. "You're very agreeable today."

"It's the season of goodwill," he murmured in reply, too busy reading subtitles to properly notice Athos' contented sigh of relief as he sipped from his cup.

He must have showed his surprise when a perfectly spread piece of jam toast found its way in front of him, because Athos raised an eyebrow and said nonchalantly, "The season of goodwill, wasn't it?"

"Thanks," he said around a mouthful, and grinned when Athos rolled his eyes.

Porthos barrelled into the kitchen next, snatching d'Artagnan's toast and taking a huge bite before being ordered to put it back by Athos. D'Artagnan gave Porthos a smug smile.

It was all about knowing who to bribe.

Porthos ruffled d'Artagnan's hair with jammy fingers as he passed. "You watchin'  _Fairy Tail_?"

"Yep," he said happily, "I think I'd be Natsu."

Porthos scoffed, leaning on him to watch, "Nah, you're Happy."

"Screw you," d'Artagnan muttered, dropping his shoulder so that Porthos nearly fell, and ended up with a face full of jam toast as his punishment.

Athos chose this moment to leave, muttering something about cleaning up crumbs for weeks, but was stopped at the door by Aramis, who was wearing a dark green Christmas jumper and not much else.

Athos' expression went from irritated to interested in record time.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Athos murmured, his fingers straying to the hem of Aramis' jumper.

Aramis laughed, cheeks pink as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "I think my white jeans are down here."

D'Artagnan glanced at the tumble dryer. "No, they're no-" he cut himself off when he caught sight of them thrown against the far wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and pointed. "They're over there,  _don't_ tell me why."

"S'what you get for callin' us softcore," Porthos chuckled, but at least his teasing covered the little humming noises coming from Athos and Aramis' mouths as they kissed.

"Guys, please," he said in mild affront, "I'm eating."

Athos gave him a scowl when Aramis slipped away, but it faded into a fond smile when Aramis wiped a bit of jam off of d'Artagnan's cheek and announced, "Gentlemen, time to officially prepare for Christmas."

"At last," d'Artagnan crowed, wiping his sticky fingers on Porthos' arm before giving him the last of his toast, earning a happy grin.

Half an hour later, d'Artagnan had abandoned his task to wander the house.

"I'm bored," he muttered, not bothering to creep up on Athos sitting quietly at his desk – Athos always knew he was there, and the one time he hadn't, Athos had threatened to castrate him.

"Mm, I can tell," Athos replied distractedly, pulling an envelope out from under d'Artagnan's thigh when he sat down on the desk.

"What are you doing?"

Athos sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Writing correspondence to people I do not even like. In fact, one might go as far to say that I loathe each and every one of them."

D'Artagnan blinked, and picked up the closest card. "This one's for your mum."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Exactly."

D'Artagnan sniggered, and was later shooed from the room after he idly tore an envelope to pieces. "You are a nuisance, go and bother Porthos."

"Rude."

"There's no card here with your name on it, be grateful."

D'Artagnan left the room with a smile, pleased with Athos' unique version of affection. He managed to sneak within three feet of the designated present-wrapping room, until Aramis started screeching at him to stop peeking.

Porthos appeared to put d'Artagnan in a headlock before he could wriggle away. "Y'know, Santa won't bring you anythin' if you know what your gifts are."

"How does that make any sense?!" he shouted, yanking Porthos' foot from under him, and they fought, loudly but harmlessly, for a few minutes, until Athos' office door was wrenched open and they froze under his glare.

"I will cancel Christmas," he warned quietly, and d'Artagnan paled.

Aramis prowled from behind them, not at all cowed by Athos' threats, and plastered himself along Athos' side. "Now,  _mon cher_ , how will you get your present if there's no Christmas?"

The smallest hint of curiosity lit Athos' eyes, and d'Artagnan took that as his chance to run from Athos' wrath, Porthos hot on his heels before stopping suddenly and saying, "Wait, why the fuck am I runnin', I wanna watch."

D'Artagnan laughed despite his grimace, and threw himself onto the sofa, abandoning the day's tasks to watch Christmas shows – and turn them up really loudly if Aramis' purr was any indication.

There were still days left unmarked on his calendar, that one carefully wrapped present under his tree, and all the saved texts filled with smiley faces and kisses. It was difficult to be around their obvious adoration when his own heart was missing its other half.

Except that, after a few minutes, Athos cleared his throat to make d'Artagnan scoot up the sofa a little, and Porthos sprawled at their feet with Aramis in his arms.

D'Artagnan stared at them in confusion, snorting at the fresh marks on Aramis' neck, and the corner of Athos' mouth twitched into a smirk. "Season's goodwill, d'Artagnan – I'll even forgive you for the envelope."

Aramis smiled up at Athos, reaching back to link their hands together, and Porthos grinned at d'Artagnan. "This is what you wanted, right? Day of Christmassy shit?"

D'Artagnan's smile started small, but grew when Aramis threw them a blanket and Athos inclined his head to share it with him.

"Aye!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ny'awwww. In case you can't tell, all of the Puppy-narrated prompts (bar #2) are part of a set, and there's two or three more to finish off the boys' Christmas (will Constance come home, will d'Artagnan admit that he's head over heels for her, will Athos do something painfully sweet on Christmas Eve? These answers and more await you in the next 6 days)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	20. The Gift That Keeps on Giving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 20 - Shopping for presents/sharing a cab._
> 
> Happy Saturday, everyone! Have a bundle of flirty banter and a lovely weekend!
> 
>  **TAGS:** Athos/Porthos, Porthos/Aramis, OT3, 0-80, mild suspense of belief, it's hard to properly formulate a relationship in such a short amount of time, but hot damn do they try.

"What'd you get the Pup?" Porthos asked into his headphones, absent-mindedly weaving through the crowds of people as he angled his copious shopping bags aside.

"I don't know," Athos sighed, the call not quite distorting the sound of a bottle of wine being uncorked, "a box set of that show he's always updating me about."

Porthos grinned, glancing in his bags at the TARDIS t-shirt he had bought for the boy. "Doctor Who?"

There was a pause, as if Athos was inspecting something. "Yes, that's the one – have you seen it?"

"Yeah, 'course I 'ave, watched it when I was a kid," Porthos replied, grumbling when he finally broke out of the bustling shopping centre to find that it was raining cats and dogs outside. "Why, recognised someone?"

Athos made a thoughtful noise. "Yes, actually; do you think the woman in it looks like Constance?"

Porthos racked his brain for the Doctor's latest companion and barked a surprised laugh, "Who, Clara? Yeah, I guess she kinda does."

Athos made a considering noise. "It certainly explains why d'Artagnan loves this show so much."

Porthos glanced at the packed buses, at the ' _seething masses_ ' as Athos would call them, and stopped suddenly when he realised exactly why Athos' tone was so considering. "Wait… 'Ave you  _watched_ the DVDs?"

"Yes," Athos replied, completely unashamed.

"Bloody 'ell, Athos," Porthos growled exasperatedly, "what 'ave I told you about openin' presents!"

"You haven't wrapped it yet," Athos replied smugly, "the rule was that I wasn't allowed to unwrap presents before Christmas, nothing was said about as-of-now unwrapped gifts."

"Sarcy git. You are so gettin' it when I'm 'ome."

Athos could lie through his teeth, and although Porthos could normally tell, he also knew that Athos was deliberately being a little shit, looking for a fight that would have them both breathless for all the right reasons.

Porthos could hear Athos' smile. "You should probably hurry home then, or I'm opening the wine we bought for Treville."

"Don't you fuckin' dare."

Athos' laugh was sexy and sibilant. "Get a cab, my treat."

"You are a treat, all spicy an' delicious," Porthos teased, and chuckled when Athos gave an indignant snort and hung up.

There was nothing like being totally within your rights to exact some revenge, especially when it involved Athos all rebellious and snarling underneath his fingers.

Porthos did so love it when Athos fought him for control.

No one could begrudge him picking up his pace and gleefully looking for a black cab. There was only one left in the ranks, and Porthos headed for it with a silent crow of thanks to the clouds overhead, his blood already heating at the thought of Athos waiting for him.

The taste of freshly opened red wine on his tongue, the defiant snap of his teeth…

Just as Porthos eagerly reached for the door handle, someone skidded into place in front of him, charming smile turned up to ten, teeth gleaming under rain-slicked hair, arms laden down with even more bags than Porthos had.

Porthos stepped back and, with a resigned sigh at the rest of the empty taxi rank, inclined his head. "Go on."

The smile dropped, surprised into leaving a face that was gorgeous even without the fake smile used for getting what he wanted. "Really, just like that?"

"Yeah, go on, s'Christmas."

Big, brown eyes blinked at him in shock, clearly having expected Porthos to put up a fight, and then that impressed gaze moved up and down his body. This time, the smile was real, so very real and so very sly, and it was jaw-dropping. "We could share?"

Porthos chuckled, pleasantly surprised by this change of events, "You don't even know where I'm goin'."

"Wherever you are," he replied flirtatiously, evidently encouraged by Porthos' positive reaction.

Still, Porthos remained torn, not sure whether he wanted to share Athos when he was so pleasingly responsive, whether the game was even played this way – how often was it you bumped into someone willing to have a threeway?

"My roommate's just opened a bottle of wine, I dunno if e's up to entertainin' two of us," he offered, raising a questioning eyebrow.

They didn't even skip a beat. "Is he as cute as you?" He winked when Porthos couldn't help his smile, the damp curls tilting to the side. "Aramis. See, now you know my name, we're already a step ahead of a blind date."

Porthos laughed despite himself, "Porthos, an ain't you just a ray of sunshine in the shit weather?"

Aramis' smirk was sly. "I can warm you up, too, Porthos."

The cabbie wound his window down, his smile wry. "Very sweet an' all, boys, but could you just get in?"

"You heard the man," Aramis purred, "Get in."

Porthos hesitated for one more second, and then he shrugged, holding the door open for Aramis, who raised a pleased eyebrow and clambered in. Following the tight pair of jeans inside, he noticed the space that Aramis had made on the seat next to him, and couldn't help his grin.

Persistent little flirt.

Athos would like playing with his fire.

"Fine," he conceded, and called to the front, "Mayfair, please, mate."

"Mayfair," Aramis murmured in surprise, "this roommate of yours wouldn't happen to be filthy rich, would he?"

"What you tryin' to say, that I'm not?" Porthos laughed when Aramis narrowed his eyes at him in reproach.

"That's not what I meant, you look far too down to earth – not that I wouldn't mind seeing you in a tux, of course," Aramis added, sly smile returning.

Porthos took careful note of the leg that ended up pressed against his, of the way Aramis kept pushing his curls back, and grinned. "Athos ain't like most people. I mean, yeah, he does this thing of lookin' at wine bottles and his lip does this little snarl at the date, but 'e'll drink it when we're watchin'  _Life Story_ or somethin'."

Aramis blinked at him for a moment before his mouth curved. "I'm not sure what's more adorable, the way you talk about his 'little snarl', or the fact that you both cuddle up on the sofa and watch David Attenborough's nature shows."

Aramis' smile grew when Porthos didn't deny that facet of their relationship. "Hey, you can't watch baby birds throwin' 'emselves off cliffs without someone to cuddle."

"Of course not," Aramis teased, and his gaze dropped to Porthos' bags just as he not-so-subtly leaned against Porthos' arm. "What did you buy him for Christmas?"

Porthos opened his mouth and shut it again, his cheeks immediately burning. Aramis' eyes widened just as his wicked smile did. " _Porthos_ , you have been a naughty boy."

Porthos' sheepish laugh was surprised out of him. "S'not just cuddles on the sofa, eh?"

"Evidently," Aramis purred, and his hand briefly rested on Porthos' knee. Porthos felt it like a flaring of heat. "Don't worry, I won't tell Athos."

Porthos snorted, "Not like it matters, 'e peeks at everythin'."

"And you let him get away with it?" Aramis asked, the question was a perceptive one beyond the simple flirting, one of trying to figure out exactly where Porthos and Athos stood in their relationship.

Porthos grin was slow. "I don't know if I let 'im get away with it, or if 'e lets me get away with punishin' 'im."

Aramis settled back in his chair with a knowing smile. "Which is it today?"

"Was thinkin' of lettin' you call the shots," Porthos ventured, and wanted to lunge for Aramis' smirk.

Before he knew it, occupied with Aramis' hand occasionally brushing his thigh or his arm, and coming up with his best stories to evoke that lyrical laugh he was starting to adore, they had pulled up outside Athos'.

"Shit, I forgot to text 'im, gimme a sec," he called to the cabbie, who grunted in response when Aramis moved to get out of the cab. "Aramis, wait."

Outside, the rain had let up, and Porthos heard the front door open and Athos' light tread down the stone steps. "Use my card, Porthos… Hello."

Porthos met Athos' raised eyebrow over Aramis' shoulder, and gave him a guilty smile.

"Well," Aramis murmured in pleasure, sinking into one hip to give Athos the same burning once-over that he had given Porthos, "has Christmas come early?"

Athos' smirk was deadly in its delight, and coupled with the messy hair and hastily done up shirt, he looked stunning. "Porthos, you brought me a gift."

Exhaling somewhere between relieved and turned on, Porthos swiped Athos' card, and stepped out of the cab to see Aramis biting his bottom lip, his eyelids lowered along with his voice, "If you've been a very good boy, you can unwrap me."

Athos hummed low in his throat. "And if I've been bad?"

This time, it was Aramis' smile that was deadly, and Athos carefully lifted his chin when Aramis rested an indulgent finger on his collarbone. "Then I get to unwrap  _you_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' present may be, er, broken in a bit early at this rate, but hey, since when has Athos had any problem with that? They do so love their instant gratification, especially of each other...
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	21. Rein It In, Dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 21 - Department store Santa._
> 
> I had so much fun with this one, it was one of those lightbulb ideas where everything just fit into place. Have a wonderful winter solstice, midwinter's luck and all that, _mes chers_
> 
> **TAGS:** Constagnan, OT3, Athos is grumpy, d'Artagnan is traumatised, the boys are very casual about their kinks, Constance is 110% done.

Constance burst into the little wooden shack with a sigh of relief when she saw Porthos within, already wearing all of the regalia bar the curly white beard, which hung off of the large chair. "You are such a sweetheart for doing this," Constance said, her smile harried but sincere. "I owe you."

Porthos chuckled, tugging at the fur lining around his wrists and neck. "S'not me you owe, I'm 'appy to 'elp out, you know that."

Constance winced, reading into what Porthos hadn't quite said. "Is he furious?"

Porthos pulled on one black boot at time, the white bobble on his red hat falling forward into his eyes before he flicked it back again. "Well, let's put it this way, Aramis didn't tell 'im 'til this mornin', and 'e 'asn't spoken to us since."

Constance gaped at him, panic flickering at her pulse. "You knew about this ages ago, why wait until now?!"

Porthos shrugged. "It was either a month of grumpiness, or half a day."

"You couldn't have told him last night?"

"It wouldn't 'ave made a difference, 'cept 'e might have slit our throats as we slept." Porthos grinned as he said this, and Constance shook her head at how fond it was.

Constance had dropped the ball this year, she was in charge of decorating their local department store, and their usual Santa's Grotto team had fallen through at the last minute. In a panic, she had called in favours and begged her friends to help her out.

She needed people she could rely on at such short notice, and there had to be at least five of them to cover all of the duties – and costumes.

Which had meant calling on someone who was likely, at this very moment, plotting her downfall.

Of course, she had hoped that avoiding him for the last month would have meant that he had gotten over it, but Aramis and Porthos had ruined that plan.

"Which one did he pick, in the end?" she asked in morbid fascination, and something twinkled in Porthos' dark eyes as he settled into his festive throne, playing with the beard as if he were a bad guy and the beard a cat.

"You should just go an' see." Porthos held out a hand, his smile forced into a faux-frown. "But be careful, 'e's already threatened to scalp d'Artagnan if 'e laughs again."

Constance stepped out of the cabin warily, twirling tinsel around her neck and arming herself with a few baubles to finish decorating the trees.

Fake, powdery snow glittered around her, a little garden on either side of the path. One of them was filled with laughter, shouts of glee coming from two grown men dressed as elves, cheeks glowing under the circles of red face paint, and snow coating them head-to-toe.

D'Artagnan grinned when he saw her, dark hair flipping down from under his pointy green hat, and was promptly coated in more white powder when Aramis sneaked up on him in the twin of d'Artagnan's outfit.

Constance crooked a finger at them both, and they bounded over like playful puppies, d'Artagnan darting close for a kiss, and light-heartedly batting Aramis aside when he tried to do the same.

"Well, don't you two look adorable?" she teased, squeaking when d'Artagnan shook his hair so that the snow went all over her. "Strike that, you're an imp."

D'Artagnan twinkled mischievously, and she couldn't help but pull him close for another kiss, smiling when Aramis made a face. "Now you know how it feels."

Aramis rolled his eyes and scoffed, "I'll be lucky if I get a kiss within the next  _week_."

D'Artagnan looked around in sudden terror, and Constance giggled, "Is he around?"

Aramis simply pointed over her shoulder, and then immediately ducked out of view when Constance turned.

From afar, all Constance could think of was,  _how could anyone dressed so festively be so threatening?_ Tiny antlers were nestled in his hair, and even though he had torn the bells off of his brown jacket, it was still laced with gold as if it were some reins.

And then Athos turned, face so unimpressed that it was surprising a small, snapping thundercloud wasn't hovering over his head. Constance waved nervously as Athos blanked her so thoroughly that she almost laughed out loud.

"How are we going to have  _any_ customers?" She asked over her shoulder. "He's terrifying."

"Are you kidding?" Aramis said, reappearing to throw Athos' back a fond smile. "He's so adorable, I might die."

D'Artagnan eyed Athos dubiously, quickly looking away when Athos shot him a glare. "How many reindeers do you know that scowl?"

"Scowly, the red-nosed reindeer," Porthos chuckled, coming to stand with them. "Aramis is right though, 'e looks so sweet."

Aramis made an amazed noise at that risky comment. "He would kill you for that."

Porthos flashed him a stoic smile. "I'd like to see 'im try, I'd 'ave him on, cute antlers an' all." Aramis purred appreciatively, settling against Porthos' chest and calling him a 'reindeer wrangler'.

It was d'Artagnan's turn to make a face when they started kissing, and Constance burst into scandalised laughter. "What are you doing out here? Get back inside, what if the kids see you!" Constance shooed them inside, and groaned when she could feel Athos glowering at her. "Athos is going to kill me, or at least  _hire_ someone to kill me."

Porthos shook his head, hand still hooked around Aramis' waist as Aramis played with the fur lining of his red jacket. "Nah, we gave 'im loads of tasks to keep him busy; an' Aramis 'as been promisin' him things, 'e'll be alright once it's over."

"Haven't you been promising things, too?" d'Artagnan asked in confusion, and then blanched at Porthos' lewd grin. "Oh, I don't know why I asked," he turned on Constance aggrievedly, "why did you let me ask?"

"Because you're a glutton for punishment," Constance remarked fondly, and giggled when Aramis winked.

"He's not the only one, Athos has this whip..."

D'Artagnan covered his ears and started yelling incoherent noises in absolute disgust, running from the room when Aramis made whipping motions with his hand.

"Stop torturing him," Constance chided, but couldn't hold back her laugh when Aramis smirked at her terminology.

"I'll leave that to you, my dear Constance. I'm sure you know  _just_ how to make him squirm."

Constance blushed, and Porthos took pity on her by dragging Aramis onto his lap. "C'mere, terror."

"Don't let people see you," Constance murmured, somewhere between having her childhood ruined and endlessly amused by their antics. "I don't think Santa should be making out with one of his elves."

"I'm gonna ride Rudolph later, too," Porthos joked dirtily, and Aramis snickered against his neck.

"You'd be so lucky, besides, Athos refuses to put the nose on."

Porthos sighed in disappointment, "Think 'e'd keep the antlers on for me?"

Aramis hummed. "I hope so."

Constance picked up her weapons of decoration and, unable to deal with the vaguely Christmassy one-liners that Aramis was trying on Porthos, she went in hunt of the wayward reindeer.

Constance found Athos putting baubles on trees very precisely, until every tree looked nearly identical. "You're meant to be Rudolph, Athos. Either the foam nose or some red face paint, you have to choose."

Athos snarled and snatched the paint, dabbing his nose with it until he looked like he had a cold.

It took every ounce of Constance's self-control not to burst out laughing at his thunderous expression.

She ran straight to d'Artagnan, and they giggled like children, safe in each other's arms.

Overhead, the clock struck time, and d'Artagnan twirled her gently, his smile soft and encouraging. "It looks wonderful. Ready?"

Constance nudged their noses together, taking a kiss for good luck. "Yes."

It went surprisingly well, scowling reindeer aside, Porthos had the booming laugh down pat, Aramis kept the adults in the queue entertained just as d'Artagnan played with the kids, who utterly adored him and had Constance's smile blindingly bright with love.

Of course, more than once did Constance lose sight of her charges, only to hear faint cries of mercy and finding Rudolph pinning a curly-haired elf against a shadowed wall. Aramis hadn't needed the red paint on his cheeks for a long time afterwards.

At least Athos stalked the gardens with a smile – even if it was sly – and after they had stopped for lunch, Constance spotted a dark mark and some smudges of red paint on a grinning Porthos' neck.

Honestly, she couldn't take them anywhere.

Although, she couldn't say much, she might have left a few bright lipstick marks on d'Artagnan in the snatches of time between appointments, and when she pocketed a pair of antlers for entirely innocent uses, she noticed that there were already two pairs missing.

As she left, d'Artagnan's hand in hers, she heard Porthos chuckle, "Come Rudolph, come Prancer."

Giggling, they ran from the faint laugh and low growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, but c'mon, Athos in antlers? Tell me that didn't make you simultaneously laugh and catch your breath. Apparently I can never decide which of them is the most, er, commanding, but I quite like that lucidity in their relationship. Sometimes one wants to crack the whip, and sometimes they want to feel it (the cuddles are a mainstay for all of them).
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	22. Sweaters, Jumpers, and Jerseys, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 22 - Ugly sweater party._
> 
> I have no idea what one of these parties are, but I'm endlessly amused by writing for prompts I'm going in blind for, and hey, who doesn't love a thousand words of fluff?
> 
>  **TAGS:** Constagnan, OT3, so apparently it's not just ugly looking jumpers, but they have stuff on them, like baubles? I have no idea, but Aramis knitted all of them, badly.

"I could feign being ill?" d'Artagnan offered desperately, hiding behind Porthos' back as Athos did the same, the pair of them had been muttering furiously since they had left the house. Porthos was doing his level best to ignore them, but he did laugh occasionally.

"No, you're awful at lying," Athos replied dejectedly, "Maybe I should just hit you."

D'Artagnan reeled backwards in outrage. "What? Why do you have to hit me, why can't I hit you?"

"Because you couldn't land a hit on me in a month of Sundays," Athos whispered matter-of-factly, "it wouldn't be believable."

"Bullshit!" d'Artagnan cried, and yelped when Athos smacked him on the back of the head just as the front door opened.

"You're here!" Aramis said happily, stepping straight into Porthos' outstretched arms and frowning at him and Athos over Porthos' shoulder. "Are you okay?"

D'Artagnan, palm clamped to the blooming pain in his skull, whined, "I have a migraine." Athos shot him a murderous look before wiping it away and nodding in concern when Aramis looked to him. "Er, and my brain might be bleeding?"

Aramis scowled at that shit lie and Athos rolled his eyes. "Useless."

D'Artagnan whirled to glare at him. "You hit me really hard, I can't think straight!"

Aramis shook his head in fond exasperation and pulled back to kiss Porthos. "How long have they been like this?"

"Since the second you left for Constance's this morning," Porthos replied immediately, far too happy to dump them in it.

"Traitor," Athos murmured, but he raised an eyebrow when Aramis took his time in coming to greet him, humming a satisfied noise when Aramis fell against his chest and gave him an apologetic kiss.

D'Artagnan scoffed in amused amazement, "Can you guys ever be angry at each for more than thirty seconds?"

"No," they chorused, Porthos stealing a kiss from Athos as they entered the house, Athos lingering in the doorway before Aramis pulled him inside.

"Right," Aramis announced, flourishing three garish jumpers and grinning maniacally. "Made with love,  _mes chers_." He flounced off before Athos could retract everything, and Porthos grabbed Athos' arm when he made to escape.

"No way," Porthos growled, twisting Athos until he was locked firmly within Porthos' grip, "If we've gotta do this, so've you."

Athos snapped his teeth at Porthos, trying to get to his lip. "You  _wanted_ to do this."

"Yeah, 'cause Aramis wants us to," Porthos said, and Athos slumped in defeat, earning another kiss when he at least accepted the navy monstrosity. D'Artagnan had spent this time edging towards the door, and without even looking up, Athos pointed at him.

"He's trying to escape."

Porthos turned to glare affectionately at him, and threw a blindingly bright yellow jumper at him. "Get back 'ere, Pup, or d'you want Aramis to pout?"

"Or, perhaps the more persuasive answer, do you want Constance to pout?" Athos said slyly, and smirked under d'Artagnan's incredibly forced surprise.

"I- You- I don't-!" he stumbled, and glowered at them both when they chuckled. "Shut up!"

He shoved the prickly thing over his head, getting in a tangle when there seemed to be bits of tinsel hanging off places there really shouldn't be bits of tinsel, and flailed wildly from the room.

A small startled noise stopped him in his tracks, and d'Artagnan wondered if the earth would be so good as to just split open and swallow him whole.

"Are you okay?" Constance asked, voice soft but thrumming with something he couldn't identify.

"Yes. Maybe? No."

Constance giggled, the sound doing nothing to help how humiliated he felt, and he stood obediently still when she said, "Hang on, I'll sort you out."

There was a faint wolf-whistle from the room he had just left, and d'Artagnan silently wished the ugliest jumpers on Porthos,  _and_ Athos when he heard him laugh.

Finally, he could see, although he was blinded by his own canary catastrophe and Constance's fuchsia fandango. The colour should have been brash, but with her brown curls tumbling over one shoulder and little Christmas tree earrings, she could make any ugly jumper look beautiful.

"You look nice," he said shyly, pointedly ignoring the quiet catcalls from behind him.

"Thank you, you look awful," she teased, "awfully cute."

D'Artagnan felt the heat pounding in his cheeks as he looked everywhere but at her pretty smile, inwardly panicking because he wasn't saying anything and bloody hell why was he so awkward?

Aramis appeared at Constance's shoulder, scruffling d'Artagnan's hair as he passed. "Adorable, where are they?"

D'Artagnan jerked his head backwards. There was a scuffle of feet as Athos and Porthos tried to run, but they must have tripped each other up because there was an almighty racket as they started pinning the blame on each other. Aramis stood above them, hands on his hips, and was immediately dragged to the floor by the pair of them, a cacophony of gaudy colours and chuckles.

D'Artagnan jumped when Constance's warm hand twined with his. "Come on, I really don't want to watch that," she laughed, giving him only enough time to wave hello at the people he recognised, before they arrived at the kitchen and he could take a breath.

He plucked at his collar, half in nervousness, half because it was itchy as fuck.

"You know, you don't  _have_ to wear it."

He sighed, accepting the beer she held out to him. "Aramis will pout."

"Aramis isn't here," she said simply, and his gaze shot to hers at that subtle flirtation, only to find that her smile was less angelic than it usually was.

In fact, it was downright impish.

"I'm, er, I'm not," his eyes widened as he glanced away, the heat of the sun once again staining his cheeks as he finished lamely, "I'm not wearing anything under it."

D'Artagnan stared at the rose-petal mouth that looked like butter wouldn't melt in it, his pulse pounding erratically when red lips curved even further.

"Neither am I."

D'Artagnan squeaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only smut I can never deliver on, sorry (they're just too cute)! Instead, know that Athos eventually whispered enough hot demands in Aramis' ear that he tricked Aramis into ripping the jumper off - everybody won (except d'Art, who stumbled across Athos gleefully un-threading Aramis' jumper off of his body with painful slowness).
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	23. It's a Desk-Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 23 - Office Christmas party._
> 
> Well, as Lancelot's given the game away in her prompt prompt (ha), I am, indeed, about to leave the house to hop on a plane to go to America! Writing shall continue as usual, of course, it will just be very excited and Americanised (I tried to do the 'z', but I just couldn't; even MORE Britishisms, huzzah)! Anywho, here's one of my favourite things, grumpy Athos and Aramis being a sauce-pot.
> 
>  **TAGS:** Athamis, office party, Aramis is dissuaded by nothing, and Athos is pleased by that, no time for references (this is no time for hats!), because I am almost airborne!

Athos made his obligatory appearance in the break room, he accepted the glass of wine thrust into his hand by his perceptive junior, and he deliberately avoided the doorway adorned with a sprig of mistletoe.

He knew exactly who was waiting underneath it.

Athos had successfully been turning down his – as Ninon so amusedly put it – most ardent admirer for nigh on four months now.

The flirty notes hidden between contracts, the little smiles across the office, the alarming regularity of their matching break times, these were all subtle (and not so subtle) ways of affecting Athos' once very sedate life.

Of course, it was Aramis' attention to detail that had gotten him this job, Athos just hadn't expected that attention to be focused quite so intently on him.

Athos battled his way through merry-making employees – some of whom were taking that role a little too exuberantly if the amount of giggles and kisses taking place were any indication.

He really had not expected his straight-and-steady boss to actually be neither of those things, balanced precariously against a wall by his rival from the other branch.

They had always whispered about Richelieu being cut-throat, but seeing him  _at_ Treville's throat was an eye-opener – and one that Athos was having difficulty forgetting.

Athos retreated to the safety of his office, closing all of the blinds and shutting the door; blocking out the incessant carols and jollity that always seemed to go hand-in-hand with people who, for the majority of the year, were quiet, hard-working individuals.

Christmas spirits, it seemed, could be found in glass bottles.

Like the myths of old, those spirits seemed to find ways to sneak into his deliberately undecorated office. The ear-piercing music wended through the crack in his door, and it hit him full blast when his door was pushed open.

It closed again, and despite the dimness of the room, only scant shafts of light peeking through his blinds, Athos knew who had entered.

He knew the minute Aramis' eyes had adjusted to the shadows, because they locked onto him and he raised two glasses of wine. "For the hermit," he teased, wreathed in tinsel with most of his shirt buttons already undone.

Aramis was a gorgeous but illegal act just waiting to happen, and it was getting harder for Athos to stop wanting it to.

Athos said nothing, too wary of the hitch of his breathing that might give him away. So he simply watched – and watching Aramis was one of his favourite pastimes, after all, even if it did involve Athos rather desperately trying to remember why he  _couldn't_.

Why was that, again?

Aramis prowled over, sweeping all of his pens and papers aside so that he could scoot onto his desk.

Athos simply watched.

Aramis dragged Athos' chair between his legs and rested his feet on the edges, backlit by the hallway light and twinkling with glitter and a rather healthy amount of  _ardent attention._

Athos simply watched.

Aramis pulled a strand of purple tinsel from his hips and looped it over Athos' head, refusing to quail under Athos' most nonchalant stare. When Aramis tugged, Athos made the denying noise he always made when it reached this point (and it was coming later and later).

To Aramis' credit, he knew how he thought the game should work, and although he let the tinsel drape over Athos' shoulders, he didn't move away.

"Come dance with me-  _us,_ all of us," Aramis begged, "I've already stolen a kiss from everyone under the mistletoe, you're the last."

He  _knew_ that damn sprig had been a trap.

"Aramis, I don't- You have some on you, don't you?"

Aramis' smile was wicked as he produced the blasted thing, dangling it over Athos' head with a hopeful expression.

Athos sighed, barely able to control the upwards tug of his smile, but doing quite well in hushing the little voice that said,  _there is no turning back from this._

Wasn't there? It was the Christmas party, things happened, they didn't have to mean anything…

"Fine, if it will get you to leave me in peace," he conceded, as if he hadn't been eyeing the sugar glistening on Aramis' lips from the cocktails.

Aramis didn't lean down to make it easier on him, no, he stayed exactly as he was, spine straight, mistletoe dangling, smile seductive. Athos slid his palms from their rigid hold on his chair to Aramis' legs –  _for leverage_  – slipping his thumbs along Aramis' in-seam until he shivered –  _definitely for leverage._

Athos looked up, his gaze catching on Aramis' chest, on that little smile that now seemed so close, and then Aramis' arms came down to rest on Athos' shoulders, so very nearly an embrace.

The mistletoe was forgotten as Athos' lips touched Aramis', tentative at first, but neither of them pulling away. Aramis' fingers brushed the back of his scalp, Athos sucked in a breath, and then Aramis' tongue swept his lip.

Athos did not simply watch, he did not hush the voice, and he knew that this would not be the last time they met in the shadows (and in the light, and the daytime, and everywhere,  _always_ ). Sticky sweetness was a taste that had Athos tightening his thumbs on Aramis' thighs, drawing needy sounds from his throat.

Pens and paper skidded everywhere as Aramis slid forward onto Athos' lap, Athos groaning when Aramis rocked against him.

"Do you still want me to go out there?" he asked against Aramis' throat, relishing the high-pitched noises he could draw.

"No," Aramis panted, making Athos smile smugly. "Although I wouldn't turn down a photocopy of your-!"

Athos bit him, and when Aramis keened and his wrists wriggled along his collarbone, Athos tied them with the purple tinsel, pausing to admire the effect. Aramis, astride his lap, cheeks flushed, neck marked, and tied up like a gift.

"Best present so far," he murmured, and Aramis flashed him a lidded smile.

"That's because you've finally been a  _very_ good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am gonna write **so** much on my flight. Pop by my Tumblr for updates, pictures of me staring at American pancakes, and the countless ficlets that always seem to come about when I travel.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	24. Stockings and Suspense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 24 - Christmas Eve._
> 
> This title implies more smut than there actually is, but never fear, I have an even **better** title for some Christmassy smut that I might end up posting for the Inseparables Fest. In the meantime, enjoy festive banter and a teeny-weeny bit of angst.
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, implied Constagnan, I have started a headcanon of Porthos' goal is to get Athos in his lap once a day, Athos' is to get off without lingering, Aramis' is to join them there.

"Remind me again why we're doing this? It's just another day."

"Athos," Aramis sighed, trying to glare but failing because he was already too excited, "It's Christmas Eve!"

Athos blinked. "I feel like my point still stands."

Porthos chuckled, saving both of them by dragging Athos onto his lap and holding him there with a kiss. It was meant to let Aramis get on with more decorating, but they looked so adorable cuddled up together (Athos poised to run as soon as Porthos' grip slackened, like a grouchy cat).

Athos went to move off of Porthos' lap, but Aramis got there first, crawling into Athos' arms until Porthos was holding them both and grinning merrily.

"Lookit my two Christmas elves," he teased.

Aramis beamed, shaking his head until the little bells woven into his hair tinkled gaily. Athos, on the other hand, looked so unimpressed that Aramis had to hide his laugh in Athos' neck, but at least that encouraged Athos to thread his fingers through Aramis' hair and tug on a bell.

"Aramis has enough festivity to cover my end, I think," Athos said dryly, "and any that's missed will be overcompensated by d'Artagnan."

"Where is the Pup?" Porthos asked, distracted by way Athos kept tugging on the bell and Aramis' spine was starting to arch as heat flickered through him.

"Working late," Aramis managed, voice a little breathy.

Porthos frowned, still mostly focused on the tune Athos was making, a melody of ringing bells and tiny noises dragged from Aramis' throat. "On Christmas Eve? Why's Treville got 'im workin' so late?"

"He didn't," Aramis' gasped as he swayed both into and away from Athos' touch, "d'Artagnan wanted a distraction from Constance."

Much to Porthos' evident disappointment, Athos stopped tugging. "Is she going to make it tomorrow?"

Aramis sagged against Athos' chest, his skin tingling. "I'm not sure, she's trying, but she told me not to tell d'Artagnan in case she doesn't end up making it."

"That's 'cause 'e'll be crushed," Porthos muttered, his hands squeezing both Aramis and Athos' hips as if grateful they were there. Even Athos relaxed, abandoning his plan of escape to simply rest his chin on Aramis' curls and run a hand along Porthos' arm. "What do we do?"

Aramis sighed, savouring the sound of Athos' heartbeat against his ear, the protective palms that held the three of them together. "We'll have to keep him busy."

"That means bein' extra nice to 'im," Porthos said warningly to Athos, who scoffed.

"Nonsense, distractions come in all shapes and sizes – besides, I'm always nice to him. You were the one who insisted on putting that red hair dye in his shampoo bottle."

Porthos tried to strangle his laugh but couldn't. "No, love, it was so funny."

Athos smiled the smile of a man who knew someone else was going to get into trouble, and it grew when Aramis asked indignantly, "When was this?"

"Last week," Athos supplied immediately, earning a growl from Porthos for tattling, "when you were at your sister's."

Aramis glared at them both. "Is that why you were so keen to wash all of the towels?"

Porthos started laughing again, "The dye was so cheap, it just stained everythin', includin' 'im, 'e was red for two days!"

Athos' smile would have been labelled cruel by anyone else, but it was actually surprisingly affectionate. "He looked like one of those little toys with the neon hair."

Aramis hesitated, considering. "A Troll?"

Porthos collapsed with howls of laughter, completely uncaring of the way he jostled them both. Aramis would have tumbled if Athos hadn't caught him and pulled him upright, stealing a kiss before leaving Porthos to his fate.

"I suppose it's time to put the stockings up, we'll make it nice for when d'Artagnan gets home." Aramis turned to eye a still grinning Porthos. "Not that you deserve a stocking."

"Oh, come on, babe, 'e drew on me with Sharpie, I 'ad to get 'im back!"

Athos strolled back into the room with a bottle of wine and some glasses. "I'm more impressed with how he managed to get the whole of Shakespeare's  _do you bite your thumb at us, sir_  on you whilst you were sleeping."

Aramis accepted a glass with a laugh, "Did you quarrel?"

Porthos chuckled, pleased that he had gotten away with it. "Quarrel, sir? No, sir."

It was as Athos was throwing impressed – and very lidded – looks Porthos' way for quoting Shakespeare that d'Artagnan stumbled through the door. He looked tired and cold (and if Aramis squinted, faintly tinged with red), but he perked up when he saw them gathered around the fireplace.

Porthos, having received a rewarding kiss from a smirking Athos, called happily, "C'mon, Pup, put your stockin' up before Athos tears 'em all down."

"You're working hooks into my stone, I have a right to complain," Athos murmured, but handed d'Artagnan a glass of wine and settling on the sofa under Porthos' arm and with Aramis at his feet.

D'Artagnan faltered, his hand shaking around the glass. "I don't have one, I left it with my parents and after they died…" he trailed off to glance away, and Aramis' heart broke.

Athos disentangled himself from Porthos' hold (getting a pinch on the ass which had him glaring over his smirk), and headed for one of the copious boxes that Aramis had insisted they drag down from the attic. It was all of Athos' old Christmas stuff, the terribly fancy ornaments and gorgeous wreaths.

Athos headed for the one they had avoided, and drew a stocking, the twin of Athos'.

Athos grasped it only for a fraction of a second, and then held it out to d'Artagnan. "Here, it's a spare."

It was a lie, and from the way d'Artagnan's lip trembled into a grateful smile, he knew it.

And lo, the stockings were hung, Athos' expensive silken creation, Aramis' bright and colourful, Porthos' England rugby union sock, and carefully hung up on the end, was Thomas'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate of this little storyline involving the four of them living together. Sorry it was late, I woke up in Massachusetts and it was so exciting that I have lost all concept of time (I'm still running GMT). 
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 25 - Christmas Day!_
> 
> Merry Christmas, all of you lovely readers! I hope you like the ending of their little story, although, I might have the New Year's Eve one be the four of them, as well. 
> 
> **TAGS:** OT3, Constagnan, the boys being stupid cute, I just want to bundle them all up and cuddle them forever.

D'Artagnan fell onto his stocking and dragged out the chocolates and a very soft TARDIS-blue jumper that the boys had somehow managed to sneak into his room without him realising.

And, making the noises of one blue telephone box and clad in that jumper, he scrambled downstairs to see a grinning Porthos flirting with a grumpy, coffee-clutching Athos, and Aramis sorting all of the presents into piles.

And d'Artagnan sagged, just a little bit.

Constance wasn't here.

He had thought… Well, he had hoped, against all hope, that she might have surprised him.

Athos turned then, with his psychic skills of knowing when something was wrong, and held out his freshly made coffee, his scowl softening. " _Joyeux Noel_ , d'Artagnan."

"Merry Christmas, Pup!" Porthos called, pulling Athos into his arms and kissing him for being strangely sweet.

Aramis was across the room in a flash, squeezing him tightly and brandishing whipped cream for Athos' gifted coffee. " _Feliz Navidad, mi hijo_ , glad the jumper fit!"

D'Artagnan offered a small smile, hugging him back. " _Buon Natale,_ how did you even get into my room?"

"Our resident spymaster," Porthos chuckled, capturing Athos' smirk with another kiss. "Y'know 'e can sneak anywhere."

"Not that I'm not disparaging my own skills, but you and Porthos both sleep like the proverbial log."

Aramis snorted, thrusting the first of d'Artagnan's presents into his hand. "That's because the two of you were up late watching  _Die Hard._ "

"Hey," Porthos called, having released a coffee-hunting Athos to fetch more of the gargantuan pile of presents under the tree, "that film is  _so_  Christmassy."

"It is not," Aramis insisted, "you just like the explosions."

D'Artagnan snickered, turning the slim, paper-thin present over in his hands. It was wrapped perfectly, so he knew it was from Athos – or, more accurately, from the people he paid to wrap it in the store.

Porthos came up behind Athos, arms curving around his stomach as he nuzzled into Athos' neck. Athos lifted his chin, amazingly allowing the absurdly affectionate move as he watched d'Artagnan open his gift.

"It's one of those orchestras that play the theme music? This one's Doctor Who based, I thought it was something that we could all enjoy."

D'Artagnan blinked, overwhelmed by the amount of thought behind it, and then he stifled a sad noise at the number of tickets.

Five, five tickets.

"I don't know, um, I don't if Constance…"

Porthos tensed, pausing at Athos' throat as he glanced up, Athos frowning in concern, but Aramis was there first, chucking d'Artagnan's chin and pushing another present in his hand. "Everything will work out, here, this one's from me."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, pushing that overhanging dread aside and smiling when the three of them offered him encouraging grins – even Athos, despite the flush to his cheeks when Porthos tried to pick him up and cuddle him.

"Get off of me, you oaf." It was blunted by the way Athos twisted to fist a hand in Porthos' gaudy jumper and yank him closer.

"Guys," d'Artagnan muttered half-heartedly, still a little in awe of their relationship (and the way Athos softened around them), until he mostly protested just out of habit. "Oh, Aramis! This is awesome, thanks!"

Aramis beamed at him. "I remember you saying that you had the original, so I thought you'd like the new one!"

Porthos dragged his Nintendo 3DS from his back-pocket, one arm still clamped around Athos. "Yeah, I 'ave Omega Ruby, so we can swap."

Athos hummed in amusement, earning a nip from Porthos. "Keep you both busy for the day, at least."

Aramis prowled over to them, smile seductive. "Why, are you planning to keep  _me_ busy?"

Aramis slipped into Athos' arms, keeping him distracted until Porthos flourished another perfectly wrapped present and tossed it to d'Artagnan, returning to Athos' back with a quiet, "Jus' where I want you."

"I've been conned," Athos murmured against Aramis' mouth, but didn't sound that unhappy about it.

Rolling his eyes at the sickeningly cute scene they made, d'Artagnan tore open the gift from Porthos, laughing at its contents. "Is this basically a gift for you?"

Porthos grinned at him over Athos and Aramis' heads, where he had one of them under each arm. "Well, kinda, but now we 'ave four controllers for the PlayStation an' we can play together."

Athos scoffed, "Please, you know I refuse to play with you three on the same screen, you always try to see where I'm hiding."

"It's skill, Athos, not cheating," Aramis said immediately, earning a pinch on the backside.

"You're just scared I'll thrash all of you," d'Artagnan teased, and scarpered around the sofa when the three of them tried to launch at him. "Noooo," he yelled dramatically when Athos' fingers found the leg of his jeans, and then he was bundled under the three of them, laughing like an idiot.

He resolutely didn't look at the one lone gift under the tree, the one with a  _love from Constance_ written carefully on the tag.

He also didn't keep looking out of the window every time a car drove past. Aramis was curled up on the sofa, arguing with Porthos on one side over what film to watch, Athos on the other, pointedly ignoring them as he read a new book.

At least, d'Artagnan thought no one was paying attention to his pining.

"Would you like me to make you a coffee?" Athos murmured, not looking up.

D'Artagnan glanced over guiltily, realising his stressing had been a bit obvious. Porthos, one hand covering Aramis' mouth, called, "C'mon, Pup, sit down, you c'n choose a film."

Aramis wriggled out of Porthos' hold and onto Athos' lap, who tried to continue reading around the tangled limbs. "Can you pick Frozen?" Aramis squawked when he received two nudges to the ribs. "Okay, okay, you choose what you want,  _mi hijo._ "

D'Artagnan winced, feeling so ungrateful. He had been given such sweet gifts, and they were trying so hard to keep him happy when it was clear Constance wasn't coming.

It was just... it was his first Christmas away from home, he wanted to see her, to maybe, possibly, finally tell her how he felt.

Maybe he had waited too long, maybe he should have told her before, then she wouldn't have been talking to that guy at work, and maybe then she would have come home.

Maybe then she would have loved him, too.

He sighed, settling on the floor in front of the sofa, and tilting his head back when Athos rested a hand in his hair, giving him gentle, absent-minded scratches. "Thanks," he whispered, "for all of this."

"Anytime," Athos murmured, tugging on a strand of hair. "Now, do you want that coffee?"

"Yes, plea-" D'Artagnan was up and at the door before the first ring had even finished sounding. Behind him, he heard three knowing laughs, and wasn't sure whether he wanted to punch them or hug them, the sneaky bastards.

He yanked the door open, and wreathed in snow and with tiny little antlers clipped into her hair, was Constance, her cheeks pink and her smile beautiful.

Before he could stop himself, he had her in his arms, and her cold nose brushed his cheek and her giggle was delighted. "Merry Christmas, d'Artagnan."

"Merry Christmas, Constance," he said, smile painfully bright. She pulled back, arms still curled around his shoulders, and then she kissed him, soft and perfect.

It was the best Christmas present he had ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think, another one for New Year's? I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, and keep an eye out for my Inseparables Fest submission (and the various stories that ARE NOT being posted to AO3 and are ONLY going up on my Tumblr. Follow me to see them)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment if you enjoyed it! You can find our prompts and posts on Tumblr at [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


	26. Auld Lang Syne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Day 26/31 - New Year's Eve!_
> 
> A fitting end to the year, I think, if a boring title. I hope you all had a wonderful year, and I hope you have an even better one in 2015! By the time we do the spring version of this, series 2 will have already finished, eek!
> 
>  **TAGS:** OT3, Constagnan, Athos is pretending not to be stressed, but he really is, Porthos is pretending TO be stressed, but he really isn't, d'Artagnan is genuinely panicking, and is adorable.

The sound of car horns and faintly pumping music could be heard over the rumble of idling engines, and the air seemed to tremble with anticipation for this once-in-a-year opportunity.

"You gotta put your foot down, love."

"Yes,  _thank you_ , Porthos," Athos bit out, swerving into a lane moving slightly faster than their own with what was definitely an illegal turn, "my foot is quite firmly down."

Porthos' arm reached out to from the passenger chair to rest over the back of Athos' as if he were a headrest, body language decidedly calm in contrast to his words. "I'm just sayin' we're gonna be late."

"We are not going to be late," Athos snarled, missing a pedestrian by a hair's length when they almost didn't move out of his way fast enough.

There were people everywhere, in their cars, on the pavement, in the damn road. It was a good thing that Athos had been the one to drive, because Porthos would have started taking points by now – and if his score on Grand Theft Auto was anything to go by, it wouldn't have been pretty.

At least Athos had the reflexes to weave them into the best positions.

Of course, that meant Athos had to deal with the backseat driving – and, unfortunately, that term was rather literal.

There was a scurrying from behind them, a scuffling of long limbs that had sprawled over the chair, and then d'Artagnan's head popped between the two front seats, dark hair falling over his distressed face. "We're going to be late!"

"I swear to God, I will turn this car around," Athos muttered, and pointedly ignored Porthos' relaxed chuckle.

Porthos' fingers moved from Athos' headrest to comfortingly palm the back of Athos' neck, thumb smoothing over the short curls at the base. D'Artagnan rested his chin on Porthos' outstretched arm, earning a grin when Athos glared at them both.

"Pedal to the metal," d'Artagnan piped up, and Athos raised his eyes to the waiting skies.

Porthos reached back to bat at the boy's head, and their bickering kept them occupied as Athos made a few more illegal manoeuvres in his – very mild – desperation to get there on time.

Finally, with only minutes to spare, Athos pulled into the right street and d'Artagnan fidgeted against Athos' chair until Athos almost reached back and smacked him like an exhausted parent.

Ahead of them, waiting anxiously on the pavement, Constance and Aramis were clinging to each other in the cold, their faces lighting up when they saw them.

Porthos practically flung himself out of the car as they pulled up, feet almost slipping on the ice as Aramis flew into his arms, their kiss laughing and desperate.

Athos followed at a more sedate pace, hid head tilting when he heard the minute countdown start from various houses along the road, and stepping carefully around a gleefully embracing Constance and d'Artagnan.

"I told you we wouldn't be late," he said dryly, and smirked when Aramis pulled away from Porthos to glare at him with flushed cheeks.

"Only just," Aramis cried, but with Porthos nuzzling his neck, added softly, "Come here,  _mon cher_."

Athos' smile turned fond, and when Porthos extended an arm, Athos slid into his grip. One of Porthos' hands was on his waist, and the other was on Aramis', holding their little triangle together.

Athos hummed in smug satisfaction when Porthos kissed his throat, arching when it turned into a nip of warning and Porthos grinned, Aramis snickering as he did the same to Athos' other side.

Athos didn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

"Happy New Year,  _coeurs de mon coeur,_ " he murmured, and took an ecstatic kiss from Aramis and a chuckling one from Porthos, before their foreheads rested together with a relieved sigh.

Inside the house, people yelled excitedly, behind them, Constance and d'Artagnan were giggling into their kiss, and Athos leaned his weight into Porthos' chest and linked hands with Aramis, and they looked up into the firework-filled sky.

"I reckon it's gonna be a good one," Porthos said, pressing a kiss to each of their heads as the colours played over their faces and Aramis made the appropriate amazed noises.

"Of course it will," Aramis whispered happily, "we'll be together."

Constance and d'Artagnan reappeared in the doorway with glasses of champagne, and Athos raised his in a toast. "To many more."

"To many more," they chorused, and their giddy laughs were lost under the blooms of powder-blue fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my love and thanks to everyone that's been with me for this set of prompts, and the others, and for all of my fics. I wish you all the best, and please come check out my Tumblr if you want a prompt written, or if you simply want to chat. _Bonne Année, mes chers!_
> 
> I hope you liked everything, please comment if you did, and get in touch with me at my Tumblr, [ComeHitherAshes](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) and SirLancelotTheBrave. The tags used are (#2k14 December Writing Challenge) and (#A Musketeers' Winter).


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